


The Year Between

by claralaurus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teenlock, fic-of-a-fic, school for scandal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claralaurus/pseuds/claralaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic-of-a-fic inspired by rubberbird's "School For Scandal". Following the events in that story in the year before the characters would (should?) be scheduled to attend university.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [School For Scandal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/446185) by [rubberbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbird/pseuds/rubberbird). 



> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using the characters from the BBC adaption of the Sherlock Holmes stories, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, adapted for television by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I do not claim any ownership over these characters or original storylines. This story is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of the Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.
> 
> I make no profit, monetary or otherwise, from creation or publication of this work. I do not approve of its reproduction or reposting in any other location, or any hardcopy format of the work. I do not give consent for it to be cited or quoted in any any public setting (including televised settings or social media).
> 
> Yes, you should read "School For Scandal" by rubberbird before starting this fic. No, this fic will not make any sense if you don't.

The uniform was scratchy and stiff, desperately in need of being broken in. John understood the stuffy newness of the outfit would force him to stand out among the other students—though he supposed in a town this small being the new student in upper sixth would do the trick of singling him out just fine. He wondered briefly if any of them had heard about the scandal—Redverse, Moriarty, the abuse, his coming home early. Principal Harvey and a few of the other boys’ parents had kept the incident pretty quiet, but he had a sneaking suspicion anyone his age could have found out if they’d liked. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d say if anyone asked. Standing in his room now he supposed it was something he should have thought about more, but… he’d just wanted to forget about the whole mess for a few months, really. 

He hadn’t talked to any of his old teammates since leaving that hellhole of a school. From his mother he knew that they had gone back, to finish their final year. He privately relished the thought of them all being on edge—wondering if there were any other “shirt lifters” in their midst. There’d be paranoia in the locker rooms, and they probably avoided that bathroom like the plague—knowing what they’d done. John generally considered himself a good bloke, but he still secretly hoped the team—hell, the whole school—had fallen to pieces. 

John straightened his school tie once more in the mirror. The green and yellow detail was a slight improvement over the mustard and brown he had worn for three years prior, but he still shifted uncomfortably in the standard gray slacks, the itchy jumper, the white shirt he could already feel wrinkling. Just one last year and you’ll be done with these things, he thought, one more year and then—

And then what? Then all his problems would be solved? John caught a glimpse of his own sad smiled in the wardrobe mirror. No, he knew that wasn’t true, felt silly for letting the thought enter his head. He though of a certain pair of ice-gray eyes rolling in a pale face, and his smile grew slightly warmer. If you get to see that every day in year, Watson, then the itchy jumper is worth it.

Collecting the last of his school things into his bag he grabbed his shoes and headed to the kitchen. He had smelled the breakfast from his bedroom, but seeing it spread out on the table overwhelmed him slightly. It was everything he liked—waffles with syrup, eggs made with tomatoes, toast with raspberry jam, sausages—and he didn’t want a bite of it. 

“There’s coffee in the pot, Johnny,” his mother mumbled over her shoulder, standing by the stove cooking up something else. John tried to calm his nervous stomach as he snagged a mug from the cabinet above the sink—the Garfield one—and filled it with the strong black liquid, leaning against the counter. 

There was no reason for him to be nervous, obviously. It was his final year of school before university; he’d be going to classes with kids he’d seen in the village since primary school. Granted, he hadn’t kept in close contact with them after he’d gone away to Redverse in year ten, but he wasn’t looking to dig any new roots in his last year at home. He was here to finish school, and to get gone. Gone and sure as hell never coming back, John stared guiltily at his socks at the thought. He knew he’d return for holidays, sometimes. No, even that was a stretch—he’d come home to see his mother, possibly Harry if she was around, and that’d be it. 

“Are you excited to see some of your old friends, then?” his mother asked, filling her own mug (decorated with Snoopy cartoons) with steaming coffee. He had adjusted over the summer to her ability to read his mind when he least wanted her to—she had become bolder, the commanding presence she’d had in Principal Harvey’s office still going strong. He didn’t know which rocked his mind more—his mother’s assertiveness or his father’s silence. Either way, it had made his own transition slightly easier—with the massive shift in the house he had felt the pressure to keep up old pretenses slip away. He’d divested his room of its football paraphernalia—the curtains that had hung since long before his teens, the battered posters. His mother had taken peculiar pride in buying him new sheets, forest green and navy blue tartan, and had labored for several late nights in the front room sewing new curtains in matching fabric, the whirring of the machine softly reaching his ears as he lay awake in bed. 

He had purged his closet, getting rid of anything that reminded him of Redverse, anything that wasn’t a favorite and everything he never intended to wear. Really he had wanted to burn his old uniform, along with his football kit and cleats, but had settled for stowing them in the bins on the curb underneath a layer of rotting food. His wardrobe was now considerable emptier, and his dressing decisions much easier. It felt like shedding just one more stone he’d been carrying around. 

He made a non-committal grunt in reply to his mother, not sure how to answer. He had worked to dampen his easy temper but remained determined not to pose or lie if he could help it—a few more stones lessened from his load. 

Mrs. Watson cracked a smile at her son over the brim of her mug. “I know it’s not ideal, dear, but it’s just one year.” John nodded silently, staring into his cup. “I know you miss him.”

John opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. He wanted to say something, to tell her he would be fine, that it was all fine, but he remembered his promise about lies. He hadn’t seen Sherlock since their rushed goodbye back in March, and while they’d called one another on the phone, texted constantly, he knew his mother could see how it ate at him. Sherlock had gone on to Eton, news he delivered to John in his most derisive and loathing tone. John had no doubt Sherlock would hate it there—for the money, the pretense, and the simple fact that his brother Mycroft had gone there before him. But John also knew the stories surrounding the college, and couldn’t help but worry, not that Sherlock would be unfaithful, but that something could… happen. He wondered if Sherlock held the same worries upon learning John would attend a co-ed college himself. 

The two Watsons stood in silence for a moment, the sound of bacon frying filling the space between them. John knew he should eat. After his mother had gone through all the trouble, had probably seen this as her last chance to make him a first-day-of-school breakfast. He had made his plans for the coming year perfectly clear to his family—he would go to the local school, he’d pass his A-Levels to get into medical school, and then as soon as graduation was over he was off to London. 

When he had told them his plans at the end of May, once Harry was home, his mother and sister had smiled, said encouraging words, and Harriet (much to John’s surprise) had hugged him. John now sipped his bitter coffee and recalled how his father had simply sat in silence on the couch in the front room, the one he could see through the doorway from his spot at the counter—the man had looked as if his son had died and reappeared as a ghost. For a moment sitting in that room, John had felt guilt at leaving his parents to swiftly, at making his plans known in the plainest terms. And then his father’s harsh words from the earlier that spring came back to him—I would have preferred if you had died! He now felt no remorse for his actions, and little to no pity for the sad mad who hurried to work long before John woke, and persistently avoided him when they were both home. He had expected his father to refuse to pay for school, but the man had been silent on all counts. It was as if John no longer existed, a sensation he wished bothered him less, so he could possibly talk about it more.

John felt his eyes begin to sting, bending to pull on his shoes to hide any his of tears from his mother. It was ridiculous, getting this emotional—he’d seen Sherlock only two weeks ago. Two weeks, he thought, agony edging the thought. You still have four months. And that was on the off chance the Holmes family would have him for Christmas again, something that might not be as likely as it had once been, given the events of last year. 

Draining his cup John swung his bag over his back and squeezed his mother’s shoulder as a goodbye. “Going already?” she asked in a rushed voice. “But, class won’t start for another half hour, it’s only a half mile walk dear, and you’ve not touched your breakfast—“

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” he assured her, but even in his own ears his voice sounded tired. So he shoved a piece of toast between his teeth to appease her, and quickly made his way out the door into the light fall drizzle.

~*~

As soon as John reached the school it struck him how early he was—there were no students in the yard, only a few teachers slowly trudging inside, large travel mugs of coffee clutched tightly in their hands. He suddenly felt foolish for arriving so early, and found a semi-dry bench to wait on.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, turning it over in his hand. It was a new model, half a necessity and half an apology. He suspected Mycroft may have had something to do with its appearance in early May, but knew he’d never breath a word. He tapped the screen the scroll through the contacts—a fairly short task, as there were only five: his mother, Harriet, Mycroft, Sherlock, and the local A&E. There were a few photos on it as well, but he couldn’t stomach looking at them just now. 

His forefinger hovered over Sherlock’s number. Was he awake yet? Probably, the git hardly ever slept. Perhaps he was already in class… when did morning classes start at Eton?

Eton, John thought, mild disgust mingling with awe. He remembered the taller boy mentioning the school as the one Mycroft had attended in his younger days, but never expressed any desire to go there himself. He supposed that, after everything, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had seen it as his final option. John assumed Sherlock had conceded, as his complaining had been, though powerful, kept to a minimum. John had almost begun to worry that Sherlock was excited to go.

What the hell, he thought, a few chill drops of rain sneaking under his collar. May as well make this bearable for the both of us.

~*~

Sherlock Holmes had no intentions of making this year pleasant for his peers. He wanted them to know how much he despised their poncey school, their ridiculous waistcoats, their stuffy propriety, and their money. He particularly wanted them each to know just how poorly they stacked up to a certain ex-footballer who currently resided… much too far away for Sherlock’s tastes.

Out in the hall he heard the other boys rushing towards the stairwell, bags slung over their shoulders no doubt, gabbing and catching up with their old school mates after the long summer holidays. With a small shock he realized most of them had probably known one another since they were small children—what a novel concept. He couldn’t remember ever having friends in school, not until John. The exception to everything, Sherlock thought wistfully, allowing himself this moment of indulgence in the quiet of his room before the day had to start. 

As if on cue the hall master rapped on his door. “Out and about Holmes, class starting any minute now.” Sherlock heard his feet shuffle to the next closed door, and wondered if the man even knew he was in there. What would happen if he simply stayed in his room all day? All week? All year? They’ll fail you in everything, you won’t graduate, and John will start at University without you. It was just a year, he reminded himself. Just one measly year, a final lap in this cesspool before everyone would leave him alone and he could simply be, in London, with John—he hadn’t thought much beyond that. He was determined to go to whatever university John chose. Damn the name or the legacy or what his parents or Mycroft thought—he could always go back somewhere else, after, though he rather liked the idea of going some place “pedestrian” and leaving them to explain it to relatives. 

Oh no, he’d not spend another holiday at home if he could help it, and he would be sure to keep John as close as possible. Perhaps the two of them could rent a flat together—something in the heart of the city, where the pulse of London lies, something small and cozy and slightly cramped—John could make tea, and he could compose on his violin when they weren’t busy with school work, and they could fall asleep beside one another every night without worrying about someone down the hall wanting to murder them. God, he thought, we could have sex every night, on every surface… they could try just about anything, and there were a few things he’d been too nervous to bring up the last time they’d seen each other—

A sudden buzzing at his hip pulled him from his daydream. The picture illuminated on the screen was one of his favorites—deep blue eyes crinkled in laughter, blonde hair reflecting the sun, cheeks red from the cold—it had been taken the previous Christmas when they had spend a day in Hyde Park. Sherlock remembered it being bitingly cold outside, John’s hand warm in his. He couldn’t recall now what had made John laugh—some off-color remark he himself had made, unwittingly, was most likely. John always seemed to laugh with him over his little social stumbles. Smiling himself, Sherlock slid his thumb across the screen and took the call.

“Hello,” he drawled into the phone. John would most likely hear the massive grin on his face through the phone, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. 

“Good morning to you, too,” the warm voice greeted. If it had been possible for Sherlock’s smile to widen, it would have. “Hope I didn’t wake you…”

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “No,” he assured. “I was just about to head out, actually.”

“Oh…” John sounded disappointed. Why disappointed? “Well, I can let you go then—“

“No!” Sherlock all but shouted. “I mean—well I’m not quite—what I meant to say was that I’m supposed to be going but really—“ He heard the blissful sound of John’s laugh, and allowed himself to bask in it for a moment. “I’m just lying on my bed anyway, don’t feel like going, really.”

“Oh?” John quipped, a playful tone around the edge of his voice. What time was it anyway? John should have class soon as well. Dutiful boy he was, he would be sure not to miss it. “Has your roommate left then?” The casualness in his voice sounded forced. 

“I don’t have a roommate John, as you well know.” He knew he had already explained his rooming situation to John. They’d discussed every detail possible. Maybe he was looking for security again. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever understand how the boy could feel insecure about his intentions—if anything, he should have been concerned over John attending a small school near home, of him growing too comfortable, perhaps doing something drastic and settling down—no, he wouldn’t allow those nasty thoughts to ruin things before they really started. One year one year one year. “There’s only one person I’m interested in lodging with ever again, and sadly, he is currently unavailable.”

“Hm,” the sound thrummed in Sherlock’s ear. He knew how that particular noise from John felt on his lips, his neck his chest, his—“You’ll need to give me this bloke’s name, so I can make sure he stays away from you. Don’t want him stealing my spot.”

“There’s no risk of that, it’s never belonged to anyone else.” Sherlock said the words quickly and without thinking. He immediately wanted to take them back. There it was again—sentiment. He didn’t so much mind John seeing it, but he should keep it under control while they were apart. That laugh trilled over the line again, and he forgot why sentimental displays were supposed to bother him so much. “And never will.”

John cleared his throat. “So,” he said, business-like. “You’re lying in bed.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, and I’m all dressed, so don’t get too excited. Finally picked out a bloody waistcoat, thought Mycroft was going to have an aneurism.”

“Cor, what’d you pick?” John sounded as if he was dragging things from his bag on the other end of the line. Papers rustled, and zipper pulled once, then twice. 

“Well, I thought I ought to make a nod to you, so it’s covered in miniature footballs.”

The rustling stopped. “You did not.”

Sherlock fought the urge to laugh. “No, of course not.” He considered for a moment dragging the teasing out, but decided it was too early for such rubbish. If John was dreading his first day nearly as much as Sherlock was, there was not need to torture the boy. He added more quietly, “It is blue, though.” 

The phone was silent for a moment. Sherlock played with the edge of the blue silk material. He had nearly driven the tailor mad with selecting the right shade. Now he felt he had some small reminder of John on his person amongst all these apes. He thought of the waistcoat as a coat of armor, protecting him from their bullshit.

When John did speak again his voice sounded tighter. “I do miss you too, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock mumbled quietly. Then, not wanting the conversation to dissolve into a blubbering needy mess, added, “So, what are you wearing?”

John let out a brief laugh. “Oh, you know, same old, really.”

Sherlock would never admit it, but he’d always liked how John looked in a school uniform. His athletic figure made the cheap material look decent, and the flimsy fabric had always left little to the imagination. “What colors?”

“Green and yellow, here,” John sighed. 

Sherlock snorted. “That’s almost and improvement.” 

The two dissolved into a fit of laughter before John continued. “You know what I never understood?”

“A great deal, but go on.” He piqued. 

John huffed. “You… agh, never mind. I never understood why the uniforms weren’t red. It always bothered me.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, lost in a rare moment of awe. Why had he never thought of that? “John Watson, you never fail to surprise me.”

“I do my best.” He could hear John’s grin. 

A pounding came from Sherlock’s door. “Holmes,” the housemaster shouted through the wood. He scrambled upright, murmuring into the phone, “I’m sorry, go to dash.”

“It’s the first day and you’re already causing trouble—typical.” From anyone else it might have been a chastisement, but Sherlock could hear the humor in John’s voice. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

“I take that as a promise,” he said with a smirk. And with that he hung up.

~*~*~*~

John watched as the other students shuffled into the classroom. He was sure there’d be a few he’d recognize, but would any of them notice him? He knew he hadn’t changed that much in the past few years—his hair was still cut the same, he (sadly) hadn’t grown, and it’s not like the town had ever been very big. Still, he held on to some insane hope that he could pass the year unnoticed.

“John!” A voice boomed from the doorway. John stared resolutely at his desk. Lots of people were called John. It was a common name. The voice probably wasn’t even directed at him. “John Watson!”

He looked up to find the round, jolly face of a boy near his age, standing directly in front of his desk. “Hel… Hello…” Shit shit shit he was drawing a blank on a name…

“Mike,” the boy pointed tom himself wildly. “Mike Stamford, we played football together a while back.”

Right. “Oh, yes hello.” Crap. “How—how are you?” I am an excellent conversationalist.

“Oh not bad, not bad.” Mike didn’t seem at all put off by John’s social floundering, though a few other students were staring at them. “I ref now, on weekends for kid games. Wild little ones, like we used to be.” He chuckled. “God, I hate them. I make me run up and down the field like a mad man. But, the pay is good.” John smiled weakly and leaned to grab his books from his bag. He was in no mood to reminisce or catch up. “So,” Mike slid into the desk at his right. “Heard you were off to some poncey school getting snubbed by all the toffs there. What’re you doing back?”

A psychopath outted me to the football team, who beat me and my boyfriend to a bloody pulp, and then said psychopath tried to strangle my boyfriend while he was still in hospital. Oh and by the way, I’m gay. John just shrugged.

“Well, it’s good to have you back then.” Mike continued jovially. “The team is near rubbish these days, but with you back—”

“I don’t play football anymore.” It came out more curtly than he’d meant, but John knew he wouldn’t apologize. He was done with sport, so far as he could see. 

Mike faltered only for a moment. “Right then,” he offered. “Well, good to have you back either way.”

John let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The interrogation was over, and he could just try to better blend in with the walls for the rest of the day—

“So, got yourself a girlfriend while you were gone?”

God this was going to be a day.

~*~

John made it through the day without attracting much notice. A few of his old friends said hello, introduced him to new students, but no one sensed anything out of the norm. he knew it was just paranoia that had him thinking they could tell everything that had happened just by looking at him. Perhaps he had gotten too used to Sherlock’s ability to read him like a book. He would never admit it to the other boy, but he found himself overwhelmingly grateful that the rest of the world lacked so much perception. 

He slumped in the door to the house, hearing his mother in the kitchen, humming happily, assured his father wasn’t home yet. It would be easier for the two men of the house to come up with excuses to avoid one another now that John had school. He wasn’t sure how much time his homework would take each night, and considered that he might have to find some other distraction for the evenings. The house wasn’t big enough to simply choose a room and assume he wouldn’t be bothered, and he wouldn’t be cowed to hiding in his room like a child sent to bed without supper. 

“That you Johnny?” His mother called from the kitchen. She would want to talk about school, and he considered flying up the stairs to the safety of his room before she could rope him in. Then he remembered running out on her earlier that morning, leaving the breakfast she’d made for him to grow cold, untouched, on the table. 

He sluffed off his bag and headed towards the kitchen. “Yeah, Mum, just got back.” She turned to smile at him, a real one, the sort he was happily getting used to seeing again. He made his best attempt to return it. “Mike says hi.”

“Oh, you did catch up then?” Her voice was almost sing-song. “Maria had seen you about the other week and asked if you’d be starting back at school. I supposed you’d not want the whole town to know before classes started, but she did say Mike had missed you.”

He was sure the whole town knew he was back already, especially if Maria Stamford had confirmation of it. Mike was a nice enough bloke, always helpful and kind, but his mother did run her mouth a little more than John thought was necessary. It didn’t matter much , so long as no one was running around with the full story. “You didn’t tell her why I was back, did you?”

His mother scrubbed a bit more furiously at the dishes in the sink. “I told her there was some rough nonsense going on at that school, that that’s what you get with those public school boys, always too rough and can’t stand anyone trying to make a better position for themselves.” She turned to John and shrugged. “She bought it.”

He let go a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thanks, Mum.”

“I know you don’t want anyone to know dear,” she said softly. Then, with a harsh laugh, “Though I’d pay to see your father’s face if the town found out.”

“I doubt they’d take it much better than he did.” John said quietly. 

Mrs. Watson huffed at the suds-filled sink. “He will come around, Johnny.”

John shrugged. “He’s taking his precious time about it.” Suddenly tired, he turned to leave the kitchen. “I’ve got homework, I’ll see you…”

“Dinner should be in a couple hours, I’ll come get you,” she offered helpfully.

John collapsed onto his bed once his bedroom door was firmly shut. He did have homework, a few sheets to fill out about A-Levels. But he could fill those out in home class tomorrow—he’d already decided what he was taking, worked out a schedule over the summer with Sherlock. He reached into his bedside table, feeling around until his fingers closed around the cold metal of the stethoscope his mother had given to him the previous Christmas. It had grown into a sort of comfort object for him, like a child’s favorite toy, and he had gotten in the habit of wearing it in his room, letting the cold disc slowly warm as it rested around his neck and rested on his warm chest. 

The instrument secured under his shirt, he pulled his phone from his pocket, opening to Sherlock’s number. Would he be done with class yet? The first day couldn’t be so long for the boys as they lived on campus, especially not those in upper sixth. And if he didn’t pick up, John could always leave a message. 

Sherlock’s voicemail picked up:

“If you don’t know what number you’ve reached, then I certainly don’t want to speak to you. If you do know whom it is you’re trying to contact, get on with whatever it is you have to say as soon as the tone sounds. If this message had put you off for some reason, best not to bother me again in the future. [Beep.]”

John huffed out a laugh. “Hey, I suppose that was… well, very you. Um, I’ve just tried to catch you, thought you were done with classes by now… don’t know your schedule though.” John cringed, knowing he sounded tiring. “Anyway, I suppose just call me back and tell me how your day went?”

He hung up, mind already rampant with Sherlock’s protests over the message later—I already know you don’t have my schedule, there’s no need to repeat the fact, John. Unable to think of anything else to do, he pulled off his jumper and school shirt and crowded under the blankets, sleep suddenly hitting him like a solid left hook. 

~*~

Sherlock turned the lock with a satisfying click and slumped against the door. He’d gone to dinner, begrudgingly, mostly because John was likely to ask about it later and he didn’t think he had the energy to lie about it at this point. It had been awful of course—people crowding at his table, everyone talking and shouting and seeming so close, excited to be back in the stuffy hallways. 

Tossing his school bag into the empty chair by his desk he collapsed to the bed. Fishing his phone from his pocket he found the screen lightly pulsing with a missed call. Sherlock frowned at the screen—usually he would have heard the tone, or felt the phone buzzing in his pocket. He quickly glanced at the clock, then back on the time stamp for the call—it had been nearly two hours ago, long enough ago that John was home from school, probably hadn’t eaten dinner yet, possibly doing homework, if he’d received any. Right. Most likely safe to call back now. 

But if John had really wanted to speak to him, he would usually have texted, right? He was usually rather obsessive about contact. At one point over the summer, when Sherlock had ‘lost’ his phone for a day (Mycroft had confiscated it after finding several photos on it Sherlock never intended to share, and still blushed at the idea of his brother seeing him in that sort of…state) John had not only called three times, left two voice mails, and sent almost a dozen text messages. At the time Sherlock had almost found it quaint how John had worried, but now he understood the unrest. 

Remembering how relieved John had sounded when he finally had gotten in touch, he quickly dialed back, the phone nearly ringing out before there was the sound of fumbling and a mumbling, rushed hello.

“Erm, sorry…” the smooth baritone woke him instantly. “Thought you’d be awake still—”

“No, no,” John insisted, rousing himself and rustling the sheets. “M’ up. How’s y’r day?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, go back to sleep.”

The boy cleared his throat, un-fogging his mind of sleep. “Nope. I’m awake now, so g on and tell me about how bored you are.”

He couldn’t help the smile. “Not so much anymore.”

There was a halting silence. Then, in an amused voice, “Was that… did something almost sweet come out of your mouth?”

“Shut up.” Sentiment. 

John made a showy sigh of relief. “Thank God. I thought I was going to start getting a cavity.”

Sherlock cringed. “John that was… bad. Even for your sense of humor.”

“Git.” Sounds of rustling sheets mingled with his voice. “So, how was it?”

“How was what?” Sherlock said in a mock-evasive tone.

John snorted. “Your first day at the school for the rich and snobbish.”

Sherlock sighed. “Boring.”

“See?” There was laughter in his voice. “I know you too well.”

Sherlock grinned at the challenge. “You’re not going to ask if I found some poncey public school boy to faff off with?”

“I just said I know you too well.” John sniffed. 

An eyebrow arched. “You’re rather confident.”

John hummed in agreement. “Based on your word.”

“True.” Sherlock conceded. “Still, a little concern would be nice. I’d hate to be predictable.”

John sighed contentedly. “You are everything but, Sherlock.”

They settled into an easy silence for a moment, Sherlock trying to wipe the stupid grin off of his face while John, from the sound of it, appeared to be rummaging in his wardrobe. “And you?” He drawled out at last. 

“Me what?”

A mocking tsk noise echoed. “Don’t be difficult.”

“See, I’m not the one who usually gets that comment.” John sounded like he was struggling with some garment.

Sherlock grinned. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“It was fine.” Sherlock could imagine the accompanying shrug. “A few kids I knew before recognized me, no one seemed to know anything, and no one asked questions. It was fine.”

Sherlock rolled the words around in his mouth before deciding on them. “You know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they found out.”

John halted whatever he was doing at the other end of the line. “You are kidding?”

“Not at all.” Sherlock swung his legs around the side of the bed before standing. “They’re your age, so probably more tolerant than anyone older, and statistically it’s unlikely that you’re the only queer person at the school. There should be at least four other students in your year at least, though they may not identify as such just yet, perhaps you could start a—”

“Sherlock, I’ve already been through that rubbish once, I’m not handling it again, not now.” John nearly choked the word out. “Look, I just want to get through this year, okay?”

“And tell no one?” Sherlock goaded.

“Correct.” John answered, voice turning a bit gruff. 

“And what if they end up going to uni with you?” Sherlock asked. “I know you can be naive, John, it’s part of your charm, but even you can’t honestly believe you’ll get to uni and not know a single soul? And you’re bloody John Watson, they’ll want to talk and have drinks and… mingle.” He couldn’t help the shudder that passed through him, and only briefly noted that John was silent. That was either very good or very bad, but he was too riled up to stop and care at the moment. “And what will you tell them? ‘Oh, would you like to come over for a drink? At my flat, where I live with my boyfriend, who is gay, just like me, and we have lots and lots of sex.’?”

John was at a loss for words for a moment. Sherlock felt his own heart was doing some strange fluttering thing, as it always did whenever they talked about this. Technically it was supposed to all be hypothetical—the couldn’t even apply to schools for several more months, let alone know if they’d be attending the same one. And while the talk of the flat was lovely, Sherlock sometimes felt John wondered if he’d be able to stand Sherlock 24/7. 

Suddenly John broke the silence, his voice a little rough. “You really mean all of that?” He started tentatively. “Living together, and… and uni…”

“Obviously.” It came out harsh. “You ought to know by now that I rarely ever speak of things I don’t mean, John.”

John ignored the nasty tone. “Yes, but… It’s just, sometimes it seems too good to be true.”

Sherlock swallowed the ridiculous lump in his throat. “Look,” he said in a voice he hoped sounded blunt. “Your grades will be fine, now that you’re not living in fear of being beaten to a pulp or expelled for some idiot reason. No—just let me say this, then you can tell me I’m being rude.” He let out a sigh. “John, I’ve said it before, and you know how I hate repeating myself, but you will make a more than adequate doctor.” He felt his words coming in a rush. “If anything the events of this past spring are a testament to that more than anything else. Not only are you ridiculously heroic but also caring, nearly to a fault, as it would seem in my case. And now, seeing as you have very little holding you back as your father has been exposed to what he sees as the worst possible fate for his son, your mother appears to have asserted her self at long last, and you have a virtually guaranteed place to live, in London, with me, I don’t see how you could still doubt any of the circumstances of the situation of which I was speaking.”

John thought quietly for a moment. Sherlock began reviewing the rant in his head, checking for any obvious errors, until John spoke softly. “That was… well, yeah. That was good. Th—thanks—”

“Don’t thank me, it’s just simple logic.” Sherlock knew there was no bite behind his words. Shifting uncomfortably, he added, “Chances are if the school day wasn’t taxing and you slept well enough last night, you’re probably just restless. That’s why you fell asleep.”

“Wha—what?” John faltered, whiplashed by the sudden change in subject. 

“Your body is used to regular, rigorous exercise, John.” It should have been as plain as the nose on his face, but Sherlock would spell it out anyway. “You might have given up football easily, but your body is still fighting it. You’ve been sitting at a desk all day, now get out and do something.”

John huffed. “And I supposed you have a suggestion or two?”

“You could run.” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s close enough to the level of activity your body is accustomed to, without the inane requirement of teamwork.”

“Nicely put, Sherlock.” The taller boy could practically hear him scowling. 

“Just a suggestion,” he said lightly. “Besides,” he added, “I do expect you to keep your stamina up.”

What he wouldn’t have given to see the delicious shade of scarlet John’s face turned as he wished him goodnight.


	2. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never again will I complain about fics that take forever to update. 
> 
> More may be added to this chapter later.

The Eton grounds were almost quaint in the fall—leaves turning, stone edifices wrapped in deep green ivy, a breeze sending the scent of damp grass through open windows. Most of the boys spent free hours lounging on the grass or playing pick-up games of football (a sport Sherlock would forevermore despise and actively avoid). They did all they could to soak up the last offerings of summer weather before autumn moved in with her biting cold and pelting rains. 

But Sherlock Holmes maintained his solitary spot in the farthest reaches of the library. His chosen corner was one near the archives, where the musty smell of books pervaded through all seasons of the year, keeping the other students at bay unless some classics or local history course drove them to these shelves. He did not regret missing the sunshine, his skin having always been pale. In truth he in tended to keep it that way as long as he could, liking the stark contrast between his gangly white limbs and John’s strong, tanned… everything.

He shook his head as if to brush off the oncoming daydream. He was elbow deep in forensics books, after receiving a special dispensation from his chemistry teacher to developed his own semester assignment. Sherlock figured the man had either heard he was difficult or had miraculously sussed it out for himself (significantly less likely) to let the boy do things his way than give himself a headache arguing.

Either way, Sherlock had happily picked his own topic, focused on the mass of information modern forensics could either misconstrue or fail to recognize at a crime scene. He knew this essay would be an easy grade, and almost missed the extra glee of proving a teacher wrong, but decided it would only give him more time to devote to John’s Christmas present. Sentiment had gotten the better of him and he had begun working on it shortly after school had started. It made his stomach do little flips whenever he thought of presenting it to John, but he supposed he could live with that—perhaps it was just a side effect of being separated from the other boy, as nearly any thought of him set off the internal acrobatics. 

A shuffling a snigger drew him out of his revere, eyes darting quickly to the nearest bookcase. His shadow had been following him for the past week, and Sherlock decided it was about time he learned its name. 

“You can come out from behind the stacks, I know you’re there.” There was a none-too subtle sniffle. “Just show your face, this is tiring.”

A small, grubby boy poked his head around the water-stained spines. He couldn’t have been older than year eight, and his uniform looked like it had been bought big, intending for him to grow into it rather than purchase a full new livery in a year or two. A thin dusting of brown hair sat on his head, haphazardly brushed that morning. The boy’s face held a sallow appearance, despite the school feeding them all up. Generally poor health, then, probably from a low-income family, here on scholarship or charity. “Do you have a name?”

“Bill Wiggins.” The boy’s voice scratched. “Well, me mum calls me Billy, but Dad say’s that’s not a man’s name.”

“You’re hardly old enough to be worried about that.” Sherlock said, appraising the boy again. “What are you, ten?”

Billy puffed out his chest. “Just turned thirteen three weeks ago.”

“Well, isn’t that grand for you.” Sherlock lazily began packing his things. He’d get nothing else done today now that the urchin had caught his attention. “Why have you been following me.”

The boy looked struck. “I ‘avn’t been—”

“Yes, you have.” Sherlock drawled. “For being such a small person you make a job of being inconspicuous.” He paused, half way through shoving a binder in his bag. “Or did you want me to notice?”

The boy simply looked at his shoes.

“No matter. Did you want something? Some older boy hire you as a messenger or something?” The boy remained silent. “Well? Speak up!”

“—just wanted to see what you got up to s’all.” The words tumbled out in a mumbled rush. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, about to cut out a remark John would probably flag as rude. He took another long look at the boy. He was small for his age, avoided the other boys as well as the fair weather outdoors, and was still curious if not sneaky. It felt painfully familiar. “That’s fine.” It came out kinder than he intended. “Just don’t get in my way and you can… tag along, sometimes.”

The boy grinned like a fool. 

“But the second you get nosey or boring you’re back on your own.” He snapped. The boy nodded obediently.

~*~*~*~

The running, it turned out, was an all around good idea. John had been irritable and restless over the summer, something he largely attributed to the stress from the spring and sudden separation, but now realized it had been mostly pent-up energy. On the first Monday morning of September as he set out in the chilly air, he felt something in him both snap and soothe within the first few strides. It was like his legs were swinging free again in a manner they had been so used to over his years of playing football. But now there were to no teammates to pass to, no opposition to guard a ball from, no one breathing down his neck about his play or harping about his prospects. He was reminded of all the times in the last few years, usually in the middle of a match, that he had wanted to simply take off, to keep running passed the goal box, sprint away from the game he had devoted so much of his life to and come to loathe. 

Here there was no one to impress—it was just himself and the road.

The running became a ritual, as much as daily practices had been before. He chose to make them early, in the morning before most of the town was up and he could be alone without feeling guilty. In that solitary hour he let his mind wander to places he usually tried to keep under wraps—more frequently than not he found himself envisioning what his life would be like at university, what living with Sherlock would be like (a lot of explosions and arguments over sleep, he suspected). His thoughts ran wild along with his legs, and before a fortnight was over he had worked his way up to an easy six miles within the hour.

It was on one such morning, a Wednesday, that John stumbled back into his room at only half six in the morning, to find his phone ringing.

“Hello?” John knew he sounded short of breath and nearly exhausted, and was well prepared for any euphemistic comments Sherlock would throw his way, but he was wholly unprepared for what the boy did say:

“So I made a friend.”

John pulled the phone away from his ear, double checking the caller ID on the screen before replacing it. “This is Sherlock Homes, right?”

“Obviously, John.” Came the haughty reply, quickly followed by, “Why, who else do you have in your phone?” The boy almost sounded concerned. 

“No, Sherlock, it’s just—“ weird, strange, unheard of, slightly unsettling. “You don’t really do friends, I thought.”

There was a pause. “I’m friends with you.”

John tried fruitlessly to fight a smile. “I don’t think it really counts if you’re fucking and say ‘I love you’”

“Stupid,” came the quick response. “It should make you count for more than one person. How about five: a mate, a date, a crush, a bodyguard, and a study partner. There, you’re five friends, all crammed into one nice, compact package.”

“You said you met someone?” John cleared his throat.

“Right. He’s only a first year, obviously from low social standing, dreadful accent, but he’s quite useful at sneaking around places.”

“You are talking about a person, correct?”

“Yes. Why? Are there any non-sentient beings that you’re friends with?”

John shrugged. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Good. Anyway, he’s good at stealing cigarettes from the druggist for me, so I think I’ll keep him around for a while.”

“You have a child stealing for you?” Of course it can’t be just a normal friendship, John thought miserably. He’s got to get something out of it for himself.

But Sherlock seemed unconcerned. “He’s more than happy to do it, John. In exchange, I explain the finer points of his homework to him. Apparently he wants to get ahead in classes, though at this rate he’ll probably be moved ahead a year.”

“That’s… that’s actually quite nice, Sherlock.”

“… Thank you.” The boy sounded unsure. 

“But you shouldn’t have him stealing. He might get caught.”

Sherlock huffed. “You seriously overestimate how much attention adults pay to children, John.”

“Just be careful, yeah?”

“Fine.”

~*~

Having Wiggins around was not nearly as bad as Sherlock had expected it to be. The boy was nearly silent, and was more than happy to run half way across the grounds to fetch something for Sherlock. He could only imagine how John would react if he knew of the situation (“He’s a kid Sherlock, not a puppy”) but decided he neither cared not intended on letting John find out (any time soon) the day Wiggins smuggled a pack of cigarettes out of a drugstore for him. 

It really was like having a very sneaky, very useful puppy, despite what John would say.

~*~

John stopped at the Watson’s gate, chest heaving and legs burning. He’d made a lap around the cemetery and the park, passed the Highfield campus, and ended a solid two-kilometer loop with his throat raw from the oncoming fall chill. 

He could taste sweat in his mouth and felt a few drops slip from his fringe into his eyes. A cool breeze swept up the lane, cooling the soaked gray shirt where it stuck to his back and raising the hairs underneath drops of sweat on the back of his neck. Soon the brief warmth of summer would fade and the skies would once again be constantly overcast followed by sleet and damp. 

Shoving himself off of the gate he made the few aching strides across the lawn and up the front steps. Definitely going to feel this tomorrow. 

The smell of dinner greeted him as he closed the door behind him, the scent of onions and beef and flaky buns wafting from the kitchen. His stomach growled low and his mouth began to water. “Mum?” he called out.

“You’re back then?” 

John jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. The man was in his usual seat by the television. He sat, newspaper in his lap, tie from work barely loosened around his thickening neck. John struggled to read the man’s doughy face for a moment before remembering himself, eyes shifting absently around the sitting room. “Yeah,” he answered lamely. “Went for a run.”

His father grunted but continued staring. 

“About 2k. Um… just ‘round the park, and the school… and, ah…” the old man had taken his paper back up, without so much as a nod. John clenched his fist once, took a steadying breath, and headed towards the kitchen.

Mrs. Watson turned her smiling face when she heard him approach. “Johnny,” she beamed, short hairs hanging loose around her ears and beginning to frizz from steam as she strained pasta in a colander over the sink. “Dinner’s just about done.”

“Harry here yet?” John asked, tone clipped.

“Upstairs,” Mrs. Watson indicated with a jerk of her head, pinching out a noodle to taste. “Foul mood, as usual. Hopefully you can coax her out of there in half an hour?”

He nodded, heading for the stairs and doing his best to avoid so much as glancing at the newspaper forcefully stretched in front of his father’s face. 

Sure enough, Harry was in her old room. Though she had moved out five years ago it was still the same as it had been when she was little—light green walls with a border of yellow roses at the top, pink duvet with matching flowers, a frilly, lace trimmed vanity and matching stool. The young woman now stretched out across the frilly bedding, now clad in a tight black skirt and combat boots, ears decked out in piercings, seemed more out of place than ever. 

Harry fiddled with her phone, held above her face, dark purple nails tapping out something on the screen. Her feet dangling over the edge of the bed and were brushing the floor, when John gently knocked on the open door. Her neck turned at an awkward angle, dark auburn fringe spilling across her eyes, glancing up from the small screen to look at him. “May I come in?” he asked, and after a quick nod stepped in, closing the door behind him. “Thank Christ you’re here,” he whispered, crouching on the bed next to her head. She remained staring at her mobile. “Dad’s been giving me the bloody silent treatment for four damn months now, and he’s suddenly decided to start conversation again.” Harry shrugged. “I haven’t even mentioned Sherlock to him once—”

“Maybe you should,” Harry informed her phone with a slight cock of her head.

John gaped. “Excuse me?”

The girl shrugged, still not meeting his eye. “Maybe he’s, I don’t know, waiting for you to bring it up. It’s not like this is his area—”

“Not his—not—Not his area?” John spat. “He told me to go and die after he found out, Harry.” 

“Well what were you expecting?” She suddenly glared at him. “The man’s a product of, like, eight generations of ‘strapping young men’ rubbish.” She shook her head at him. “You knew he wasn’t going to take it well, so don’t act all surprised.”

“Have you told him about you, then?” John challenged.

His sister rolled her eyes. “It’d hardly make any difference, he didn’t… invest as much in me.”

John felt the blood rush to his face. He found himself unable to explain the embarrassment that came whenever someone mentioned his former football career. “I never asked for any of that crap—”

“Look, he’s uncomfortable, and you’re like a bull every time you try to talk to him, and we’re all a little strung out because of it, okay? I know Mum doesn’t say anything, but you two make everything awkward as hell now.” She sat up, tugging her skirt lower on her tights. “So man up and talk to him about it already.”

His tongue flopped around in his mouth, unable to turn his racing thoughts into words. Talk to him about it, he thought. Like blood hell. 

Harry stood, fixing some fake smudge in her makeup at the mirror and slipping her phone into a back pocket. “He’s not going to be the first one to say anything, and neither Mum nor I are going to be the go-between for you two.” She caught his eye in the mirror. “He’s had a lot to adjust to too in the last few months and I’m sure he’d like to start talking to you again some time this century.”

~*~

Dinner was quieter than usual, which John chalked up to Harry being home. His mother had never paid the girl much favor, and their father had always been far more invested in John’s sporting adventures. Much as he hated to admit it, he was decidedly the Golden Boy, even at home, it seemed. He supposed that was why she had so ferociously rebelled— getting in fights at school when she was little had been attributed to John’s arrival, the older sibling’s need to assert herself and regain attention. Then there was the (poorly done) cutting and dying for her own hair in her teens, which everyone had said was just a few rough years. And then in sixth form she had started dressing different, all short skirts and chunky shoes and dark colors. It wasn’t until she was away at uni that she brought up the word ‘girlfriend’ and while John had known it wasn’t for shock value, everyone had shrugged it off, assuming it was another attempt to get a reaction. Despite her best efforts still everyone assumed Harry was in an experimenting phase, her only goal to shock and goad her parents and the neighbors. He was constantly amazed by how wrong people could be about the ones they’d raised.

She threw him looks all through the salad, made several meaningful grunts and throat clearings while chewing her way through her serving of bread. They were half way through the roast before Harry broke the din of cutler on porcelain with, “So, John—heard from Sherlock lately?”

Subtle. He glared at her from across the table. “Yeah.”

“How is he? He’s at Eton, right?” 

Right, because reminding us all of that is going to help. “Yeah.”

“He like it?” Her tone was far too chipper.

John gave a shrug. 

“That mean ‘no’?” she egged.

He continued to stare fixedly at his plate, stabbing violently at his potatoes. “Thinks his professors are all idiots, but that’s hardly new.”

A loud snort came from where his father sat at John’s right. The three others stared at him in shocked silence, but the man just kept shoveling forkfuls of potatoes in his mouth. 

“Anyway,” Harry persisted. “His birthday is this month, right?”

“What?”

“His birthday.” She said it slowly, like he might be very old or very deaf. 

Something began to prickle between his eyebrows where the skin was knitted. The start of a migraine, probably. This fucking family, he thought. “Why do you care?”

She shrugged. “He’s your boyfriend, why can’t I take an overprotective-sister interest?”

Boyfriend floated around the kitchen in large, heavy letters. Mr. Watson coughed around a mouthful of food, John felt panic spark at the top of his spine, and even Mrs. Watson couldn’t stifle the stiff sniff that escaped her lips.

“Harry, that’s weird.” John felt his face begin to blush, staring at the massacre on his dinner plate.

“I think it’s sweet,” Mrs. Watson offered. “Have you gotten him anything?”

“I—what?—no, I’ve been busy—l—oh what the hell do you have to say about it?” It had been the sneering gawff that finally set John over the edge. But the man was unperturbed, simply stacking more slices of onion on his fork. John felt heat begin to creep up his neck. Say something! He wanted to shout. Even if you’re not on my side, just fucking respond! Anything was better than pretending John didn’t exist. Mr. Watson continued to pick at his plate, never looking up even as John stared him down with everything but actual laser beams shooting from his eyes. Useless.

The rest of dinner passed in tense silence. It was only when Mr. Watson stood to bring his empty plate to the sink that he spoke. “His birthday isn’t this month, it’s in January.”   
The kitchen went silent save the clatter of Harry’s fork falling on the linoleum floor. The three remaining Watsons still sitting at the table started blankly at him. None of them so much as moved a muscle as Mr. Watson calmly rinsed his dish and placed it in the washer. John found his voice first. “How… how did you—why do you—”

“The boy wrote it on the bloody calendar,” he said, speaking to no one in particular, with a jerk of his head towards the calendar featuring Golden Retriever puppies on the far wall.

It was only after he had cleared his own plate away that John realized ‘the boy’ had meant him.


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I'm getting lazy? If anyone wants to beta or Brit-pick this, be my guest. And if you have any questions or suggestions, the comments are open.

As the weekend drew near John found he had new, mixed feelings about Halloween. Growing up he had loved it, not so much for the dressing up but rather gorging on sweets with his friends until they were nearly sick. But now seeing anything with fake blood only reminded him of how he and Mycroft had found Sherlock on the bathroom floor, bruised and broken, Jim Moriarty’s initials drawn on his chest in red marker. 

He shook the thought aside and headed to home class, where most of his classmates were already seated. A few were dressed up—three girls were wearing false fangs, one boy wore a faux arrow on his head, and Mike had on what looked like a pair of elf ears. “Grow those overnight?” John asked, taking his usual seat next to Mike. 

The other boy gave a good-natured chuckle. “Just starting the festivities a little early, is all.”

“You’re not actually going out like a toddler tonight, are you?” John said it with mock surprise, but it wouldn’t have shocked him to learn that Mike planned to go panning for candy. 

To his relief Mike shook his head. “Nah. My parents are out of town until Sunday after supper, so a few mates are coming over. I think some are bringing friends.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had avoided parties for a good long while. He told himself he was being paranoid, that Mike hadn’t suggested anything. But he couldn’t deny that a part of him wanted Mike to invite him over. His own parents had left for a five-day trip to visit some distant aunt on Wednesday, and having the house to himself during one of the creepiest holidays of the year was less than savory. “They don’t mind?” he asked. “You having a bunch of wild teenagers over while they’re out?”

“So long as the place is clean when they get back,” Mike shrugged. “And nothing too precious gets broken.”

“Well,” John offered with a good-natured smile. “Good luck then.” He turned to pull his things from his bag, mentally berating himself for such a stupid comment. 

“You know, the more’s the merrier, so if you’re not--” Mike ventured. 

God no don’t ask just don’t ask. John thought desperately. Just let me have my pathetic weekend alone. A few long runs, crap telly, and too many hours spent drooling and wanking pathetically to pictures of my boyfriend. Who I suppose you still don’t know about. Damn. 

Or invite me. Of course the devil on his shoulder had to intervene. Let me drink until I can’t see straight and do something stupid. Or pass out and sleep until Monday. 

An image came to mind of the look on Sherlock’s face after the last time John had experienced a night of heavy drinking. The boy had looked broken and near bursting with rage at the same time. The memory made him feel suddenly ill. 

“I’ve got a thing,” He blurted out lamely. Idiot, he could have slapped himself. He thought quickly of some way to draw attention form the pathetic excuse. “My mum, there’s this A Levels prep stuff she’s been badgering me about finishing this weekend.” He added a half-hearted shrug for good measure. “Sorry.”

Mike gave a polite nod. “No worries.”

The bell rang for class. 

~*~

During lunch John and Mike found a shaded spot under and oak tree in the courtyard, enjoying the privilege of upper sixth formers eating outdoors.

As they unpacked their lunches and began eating Mike regaled John with the intricate plans for his costume. He was dressing up as a Hobbit (John had been mistaken earlier about the ears), and had apparently put quite some time and effort into the outfit.

“But the cloak was the real tricky part,” Mike continued. “Because the material needed to be heavy, see, but the fabric store my mam goes to only had rubbish linen stuff—it’s supposed to be more like wool, so she said. Anyway, and then there was the clasp—“

Johns phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. Retrieving it he saw Sherlock’s number illuminating the screen. “Sorry,” he said to Mike, already moving to stand. “Do you mind if I take this? Only a second.” But he was already up and walking away to a more secluded corner of the courtyard. 

“Hey,” he said softly into the phone. There was always one teacher on duty to mind the students out here on their lunch hour, and while phones were forbidden in classrooms, they were willing to look the other way during the lunch hour for older students as long as they didn’t cause a disturbance. 

“Enjoying your day so far?” The baritone washed over John like a balm. He hadn’t realized how tense he was.

He shrugged. “It’s been okay, just the usual. Yourself?”

Sherlock made some non-committal noise. “We’ve the day off from classes. Some ridiculous tradition or other.”

A small prick of jealously tickled at John’s stomach. “What have you been doing with yourself all day, then? Looking up homicide rates for Halloween night?”

“No,” Sherlock rumbled out in an escaped laugh. “Thought I’d save that for this evening. Maybe wander into town and see if I could find a recent victim, anonymously tip off the police.”

John bit his tongue against a warning. Even in jest he couldn’t stomach the idea of Sherlock willingly placing himself in harms way.

“Actually,” the boy continued, “I’ve just been sitting in my room. By myself. Got to… missing you, or something.”

John smirked. He knew Sherlock loathed the random displays of affection that escaped him, but John relished them. “Go on, then.”

There was a pause. “Go on with what?” Sherlock sounded sincerely confused. 

He couldn’t help a laugh. “Telling me all the ways you’ve been missing me.”

“Is that supposed to be a line or something?” He was beginning to sound annoyed.

“No, just… never mind.” It’s always so much easier in person, John thought. He’d never realized before how heavily Sherlock relied on visual deductions to determine John’s mood. Suddenly a thought occurred to him—of course!—he couldn’t believe neither of them had suggested it before. “Hey,” he started excitedly, wetting his lips. “You free later?”

Sherlock scoffed. “John, I’ve just told you that I’ve the day off from class, the majority of which I’ve spent pining for you in my bedroom. Given what you know about my social habits, what on earth do you think I have planned for this festive All Hallow’s Eve of a Friday?”

John let out a laugh. “Nothing, just I was wondering if you’d want to video chat later. I don’t know if your laptop has it, but I don’t think mine does—the thing is a dinosaur. But my phone does, so if you’re keen we could do it that way—“ 

“John, you’re a genius.” He would never tire of hearing those words, however few and far between the times he heard them were. Sherlock’s voice came back tinged with concern. “Won’t you’re parents… I mean, not to suggest anything untoward, but I don’t think your father would like—”

“They’re on holiday, due back Sunday night.” John cut in quickly. Then, playfully added, “So, not to suggest anything, but I’ll have the house to myself… could get up to all sorts of things you might catch on camera.”

“John…” It came as a breathy sigh over the line. John wet his lips at the sound. “When are you done with class?”

“I should be home by four,” he said hurriedly. “Once the door is locked I’m yours for the night.” He thought for a moment. “Might need to take a break for dinner, though.”

“Can I watch you eat it?” John nearly laughed at the question. 

I am dating a madman. 

“If you like, sure.” He couldn’t keep the messy grin splashed on his face out of his voice. “Listen, I’ve got to go, lunch hour is nearly over. But I’ll text you once I’m secured inside the house.”

Sherlock’s voice had dropped several levels. “I’ll spend the next few hours making myself ready for you.”

“Tease,” was all John managed to grit out before Sherlock hung up.

John thanked the gods his parents had taken a holiday weekend. 

~*~

Sherlock tapped his pone against his lips, taking a moment to center his thoughts on train timetables. He could skiv off dinner, head out on an earlier train, be in Portswood by six, at the latest. 

Unlocking his phone he quickly punched in a number. “Remember how I’ve been such a model student this year?” He began as soon as the line picked up. “Well I’m calling in a treat for good behavior.” 

“What is it?” The voice on the other line asked. “Nothing too dangerous, I should hope. No threat to international security, do I dare to presume?”

Sherlock waved the comment away. “Not this time, perhaps next year if you continue to be insufferable. I need a train ticket for the weekend.”

Mycroft’s eye-roll was almost audible.

~*~

In the middle of his last period of the day John felt his phone vibrate. Rising from his seat in a silent excuse to go to the bathroom, he passed Mike doodling something in his notebook. It looked like Anime. John felt a twinge of guilt from earlier in the day, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to go. He was supposed to be living this year, not simply surviving. Parties counted as living, didn’t they?

Reaching the bathroom he locked himself into a stall. He felt a bit perverted opening his phone in the stall, but the moment of awkwardness was worth it. 

He opened the latest photo and immediately sucked in a steadying breath. Sherlock’s left hipbone dominated the frame, edging on something darker in the lower right corner, where his hand was clearly busy. “You right bastard,” he mumbled, the words vaguely echoing off the tiled walls. He could feel the heat pooling quickly below his navel, and knowing it wouldn’t do to walk back to class half-hard, started running old football plays in his head. 

After locking and pocketing his pone he unlatched the stall door. In a moment of paranoia he turned to needlessly flush the toilet. Washing his hands at the sink he let himself pause for a moment to think about the coming evening. He would have the chance to see Sherlock’s face again, to speak to him and see his reactions in real time. 

He felt like a lovesick schoolgirl. 

When the final bell rang and he had gathered up his things, John made his way over to where Mike was still packing. “Hey,” he started, Mike jerking his head up in surprise. “What you said earlier, about… ‘the more the merrier’ and all… well, my parents out gone on holiday, too, so… I mean, I know this is sort of pathetic, but—“

Mike’s voice was warm. “Course you’re welcome, John.” John felt himself sigh in relief, but too soon—Mike quirked an eyebrow. “Though, I wouldn’t want to impede on that ‘thing’ you were gonna do…”

“Well, you know,” John stammered, ears going red. “I’ve got the whole weekend for it.”

Mike smiled. “See you at eight, then?”

~*~*~*~

It took three trains, one bus, and nearly three hours for Sherlock to find himself in the triangle of Portswood’s city centre, just before four o’ clock. The town was small, though not completely repugnant. He had seen so little of it on his last few visits, glumly clouded as they’d been, that the uncharacteristically sunny October day made the place seem almost quaint.

Checking his watch once more he estimated John would arrive home in a quarter of an hour, giving him just enough time to pick the front lock and situate himself in the kitchen. He had decided on the bus ride that the sofa in the front room could be seen from the street, while the kitchen table had the advantage of a view of the front door without making his presence glaringly obvious as soon as John entered the house. 

He set off at a brisk walk, following the GPS on his phone. It felt strange to need directions for a change. Most of the shops and parks were decorated with fake cobwebs and pictures of jack-o-lanterns. A few little ones were already out with their parents, determined to have the trick-or-treating business over and done with before dark. At a corner he passed on mother arguing with her small son. The boy had sat on a cloth shop stoop and was refusing to continue on until she switched out the candies he was allergic to. 

As he reached the Watson’s front door he found he was right on schedule. A minute later found him inside the little yellow house with the door relocked behind him, rushing to the kitchen, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over a chair at the table. He glanced at the clock on the oven—a few minutes to spare. Should he make tea? Would that be welcome?

The jiggling of the front door startled him for his domestic thoughts. Taking only a moment to briefly panic he (somewhat inelegantly) grabbed a seat in the nearest chair crossing his right ankle at the left knee opting for a casual and slightly bored look while leaning his arm on the table. 

John opened the door humming softly to himself. Sherlock made a mental note to asking him what song it was later. He watched half in awe as John stowed his keys in his bag, locked the door, and straightened up. 

It took a moment for him to notice the dark figure crowding the yellow kitchen, but when he did his mouth dropped in the most delicious manner. “You—w-where—“ he stammered. Sherlock eyed his bottom lip—it was slightly damp. He wanted to suck it between his own, pull on it with his teeth. 

“You—“ John dropped his bag and was striding swiftly towards him. Sherlock made a move to stand but the shorter boy was already crowding him back into the chair, crushing their mouths together. “You—utter—wanker—I swear—“ John fumbled out words between hurried kisses, a mess of wet smacks and clicking teeth. We’re out of practice, Sherlock thought briefly. He yanked at the backs of John’s knees until the blonde was straddling his lap, both of them letting out a grunt as their hips aligned. Just as quick John slipped his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth, brushing it along the inside of his lips, across his teeth, before massaging Sherlock’s tongue with his own. God the taste of him—Sherlock wanted to get drunk on it. He slipped a hand into the short blonde hairs at the base of his skull, pulling their faces closer together. He felt guilty in a way he couldn’t explain, unable to get enough of the boy in front of him. 

“Surprise,” Sherlock rumbled into the soft flesh of John’s neck, kissing and nipping in a lazy pattern over his pulse point. 

John huffed out a laugh. “Sod video calls. God,” he sighed as Sherlock’s mouth dipped lower. “You feel better than I remember.”

Sherlock couldn’t explain why, but the comment made him want to hold John close. He shouldn’t ever have to forget how this felt. Instead he gently kissed the dell between John’s collarbones and mumbled, “Care to see some more?”

The shorter boy all but yanked him up by his shoulders. “God yes.”

They stumbled up the stairs and crashed through the door to John’s room. Sherlock took a moment to register the change in decoration. No more bloody footballs, he thought with immense satisfaction before John tackled him to the bed. 

“Later,” John murmured, “I want to know just how the hell you managed to pull this off.” Sherlock smirked, looking forward to John’s short blurbs of praise as the pieces began to fit together. He was rather proud of thinking to take the photos in his room before leaving for the train, then sending them to John periodically.

It shocked him how much he had missed this boy. During the day he let his mind become consumed with his schoolwork, and in the evenings devoted himself to not running his mouth at anyone (well, not too many people). There were few moments when he would allow himself to examine the ache in his chest, and even then it would only be for a few minutes. But now, being so close to him, being surrounded by John once again—months of pent up longing flooded his senses. He clung to the smaller boy’s shirt, seriously hindering John’s efforts to divest himself of his school clothes. 

“Grhh—Sherlock—do you want to do this clothed or something?” He grumbled out in frustration, jumper stuck half way over his head. 

Sherlock quickly released the material. Clothed, that was an interesting idea. They’d never done it that way before. He’d have to give it more thought later—just now he was preoccupied by the rapid appearance of John’s toned torso as he undid the buttons on his school shirt. He couldn’t resist the urge to reach out a pale hand and touch the tanned chest—John’s breath came out in short pants, his skin already adorned with a light sheen of sweat. His hands moved to broad shoulders as John hurriedly yanked his arms from the sleeves, tossing the shirt to the floor. Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a mocking tsk sound. “That’ll leave terrible wrinkles, you know.” 

“Shut up,” John grumbled, swooping down for a sloppy kiss as his fumbling fingers moved to his belt. Sherlock could feel his skin practically humming under his hands, smoothing the tension away from his ropey muscled upper arms. He was just as strong as ever, but the definition seemed to have been thrown into sharp relief—he was losing weight then, but still keeping fit. Perhaps he was eating less, Sherlock thought, stirred by the thought though he never gave much consideration to food himself. He’d have to see that John ate enough while he could keep an eye on him. Clearly no one else did. 

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts as John raised his hips, having undone his flies and now working down his trousers and pants. He got them to his knees before he realized the problem of being half standing and half naked. Rolling until he was lying side by side with Sherlock on the bed, he shucked the remainder of his clothes. Sherlock blatantly stared at the stiff and flushed erection jutting from the clutch of rough cinnamon hair between John’s legs. Beautiful.

The shorter boy shifted uncomfortably under Sherlock’s gaze, holding his legs close together. Can’t have that, Sherlock thought, turning so they faced one another, breath mingling, reaching out a pale hand to rest on John’s strong thigh. “The last train departure for the weekend is nine tomorrow night.” His thumb made lazy designs in light hair on soft skin. “I should leave for the bus around seven, then.” 

The words came out softer than he’d anticipated, surprising him just enough to be caught off guard as John slid up to his side until his front was curved perfectly into Sherlock’s torso. 

Sherlock ran his hands across the glorious bare skin laid out for him, enjoying the changes in texture and shape. He knew he would never get enough of this, of cataloging the changes in John’s flesh, or mapping him out by touch, memorizing every freckle and scar. And he was so warm. Sherlock caught a glimpse of the emptiness that he knew was waiting for him back at Eton. In his single room surrounded by the masters and boys, who knew nothing of the amazing man currently lying on top of him, he knew there would be a certain chill there now too, in the hollow space by his side where John was meant to be. 

Suddenly John rolled to his side and propped himself up on an elbow until he was facing Sherlock. He was still panting, and when Sherlock looked up towards his face he saw the deep blue eyes had been nearly consumed by black. John jerked his chin. “Go on then,” he said, “give me a show.”

Sherlock smirked and let his eyelids droop slightly, fingers reaching for the buttons of his own shirt. He pulled them from their holes slowly, watching John’s eyes track the progress of exposed milky flesh. He rose from the bed to shed his shirt, watching a delicious flush creep from John’s cheeks to his neck and down across his chest. He was gorgeous, in every possible way, and Sherlock felt a wave of guilt at the brief wish that he could hold this moment, where he felt like drowning in awe and wonder and just missing John like this. He knew he wouldn’t allow himself to do it, but for a moment the opportunity to simply let go felt wonderful. 

Finally he kicked his pants into the small pile of clothes he’d made and kneeled on the bed, crawling over the shorter boy. He lazily settled himself over John’s body, until their hips aligned and his elbows boxed in the blonde’s head. If he dipped his hips another inch their straining erections would brush, but for a moment he wanted to drink in the man beneath him. 

He would never tire of seeing John like this, legs spread, chest heaving, a glorious flush creeping from his stiff cock to wet and slightly open lips. The blonde strained his neck reaching up for a kiss, Sherlock letting their lips nearly brush before shifting away. It wasn’t until he’d pulled a whimper from those repressed lips that he leaned in, sealing them with his own. 

“I believe I’ve missed you terribly.” He breathed out the confession with eyes shut, offering John another languid kiss before lowering his hips the necessary inch. Their groans mingle in his mouth, Sherlock’s body fighting between disbelief that he was finally here and the screaming need for release. 

John thrust his hips up and let out a gasp. “How do you want me?”

“I believe it’s your choice,” Sherlock said with a shake of his head. John bit his lip in a manner Sherlock refused to call adorable, before seeming to make up his mind and lying on his back, hands tossed lazily above his head. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in surprise—he’d been reading a strong top from John for the evening. “You’re sure you want to—”

“No, not like that,” John said, a tentative smile playing around his lips. “I want—I want you to—” his cheeks were beginning to redden, but his voice was still firm in a long-made decision.

“Oh,” Sherlock exhaled with sudden understanding. He laced his fingers in to the hair at the base of John’s neck, pulling him close until he could breathe the words into his ear in the lowest register his voice would reach. “You want me to ride you.” John whimpered in return but no, that wouldn’t do. “Is that it?” Sherlock pressed, biting at John’s earlobe and earning himself a small gasp. He nipped lower along his jaw line, reducing John’s breathing to quick pants as he reached the soft sensitive flesh under his chin. “I need you to say it, John,” he rumbled, continuing his trail down the shorter boy’s neck. “You know I’d hate to have misread things—”

“Yes.” It came out as a gasp as Sherlock’s lips locked over his Adam’s apple. “God yes, just… please, love…” 

“Right then.” He pulled back until he was up on his knees, reaching into the bedside table for the bottle he knew John kept stashed there. For a moment he paused to inspect the label, frowning. “Do you use this when you’re alone?”

John rolled his eyes. “No, keep it in there incase the door hinges get stuck.”

“What I mean is do you ever…” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John threw him a blank look.

Sherlock gave up with a shrug, flipped open the cap and let a generous amount drizzle onto his fingers before sliding onto his back, knees pulled over his chest, eyes still locked with John’s as he reached around his thigh and brushed fingertips over his entrance. Even as he hissed at the cool touch he heard a small gasp come from John. The blonde’s mouth fell slightly open, just enough to give a peek of that pink tongue inside. Sherlock licked his lips, watching as John imitated the action. “Watch me,” he managed to husk out.

John did. As Sherlock let his thin digits slowly work himself open, John drew nearer, eyes locked on the progress Sherlock was making, and drew a sharp breath as one finger finally breached the taut ring of muscle. His eyes rolled shut and he could feel the heat from John’s breath on the backs of his thighs as he worked up to the second knuckle. “Do you ever do this to yourself?” he asked in a hoarse voice. John managed a small nod. Sherlock closed his eyes with a wide smile. “Knew it.”

A hand came to rest on each of his thighs, spreading him wider, and he looked up through his lashes, to find John intently watching as he managed to slip in a second finger and began scissoring himself open. “Talk to me,” he huffed out. “Tell me what you want to see.”

John’s fixed gaze didn’t even falter as it traveled up Sherlock’s torso to meet his eyes. He absently licked his lips as he started, “I want to watch you open yourself up slowly. I want to watch while you stretch out, ‘til your rim is red and greedy. Maybe I’ll help you—add a few fingers of my own.” His breath was coming in quick pants now. “And then, when you’re good and stretched for me, I just want to take a moment to look. You’ll be so ready by then love, you’ll be spasming and f-fluttering.” His voice faltered briefly as Sherlock let out an involuntary moan at John’s words. The small, rough hands began stroking the backs of his thighs, dragging callused palms against sensitive flesh. “You’ll be aching for something to fill you up, to clench down on, hard. But don’t worry love,” he said, a grin spreading over his face. To Sherlock’s surprise, he bent to kiss low on Sherlock’s thigh, very near to where his fingers were slowly driving him mad, adding a third and thrusting them roughly. “I’ve just the thing for you.”

Sherlock yelped as he felt a fourth finger slide into his gradually loosened opening. John’s finger was shorter, thicker, and rougher than his own, the rhythms of their hands not synchronized for a moment, the stretch burning—and Sherlock was certain he’d never felt anything better in his life. 

John leaned close over Sherlock’s chest, the two of them panting as they worked him open. Finally Sherlock bit off a choked sob, managing “John—oh God, John, I’m ready—please, do it—”

Fingers withdrawn he felt the hands return to his thighs, spreading him even wider. He caught a glimpse of the look in John’s eye, and thought it just might be enough to finish him off. It was pure hunger, and at the sharper edges, ownership. “Fuck yes,” John huffed out in a gruff voice, sounding nearly hoarse. “Yes, damn it—you’re so bloody gorgeous it’s not even fair.”

In a rush Sherlock pushed himself up and John onto his back, hitting the pillow with a grunt. Fumbling for the tube behind him, he nearly whimpered at the self-satisfied smirk John wore, hands settling possessively on Sherlock’s bony hips as he flipped the cap once more and slicked John’s cock. 

He watched as John’s face played a series of the most beautiful contortions he’d ever seen—flashing between pleasure and anticipation and outright adoration as he slowly slid down on to his hardened length. Fully seated, he rested a moment, feeling the welcome scratch of John’s pubic hair against his sensitive bullocks, felling his inner walls stretch and burn just as he had expected at the intrusion. 

“Sherl—Sherlock, love,” John choked out beneath him. Remembering himself, Sherlock lifted his hips, high enough that only the head of John’s cock was still inside of him, before swiftly sliding back down. The look of pure ecstasy on John’s face was something he planned to replicate there as often as possible for the remainder of his natural life. 

The satisfying sound of flesh smacking against flesh rang throughout the room as Sherlock felt his thighs and buttocks begin to burn, eyes closed and feeling positively drunk between the sensation of John filling him and the obscene sounds the shorter boy was making. His strong fingers dug deep into Sherlock’s hips, guiding him in the quick rhythm they’d set. Soon enough he felt John begin to thrust up as well, at first involuntary, but once he heard the moans it pulled from Sherlock’s mouth he began to pump his hips in earnest. 

John’s guttural groans beneath him grew shorter and morphed into near whimpers. He could feel himself losing the power of coherent speech, pleasure spiking through his body and forcing areas of his brain to go quiet—finally, finally quiet—nerves screaming in joy when John wrapped a sweaty palm around his rock-hard erection. He cracked his eyes open to take in the flushed an absolutely wrecked face on the bed below him—John looked like he was ready to fly apart, holding himself together by sheer willpower. “Come on love,” the blonde managed, the words sounding thick and heavy in his mouth. “I want to see you—come—”

Sherlock felt pleasure spiral up his spine and bloom across his body. He was vaguely aware of shouting, his release spilling from him, the fluttering muscles of his arse setting John off as well. The hot pulses of ejaculate inside of him left his brain in a haze for a moment longer. When he finally did come back down from the temporary high the first thing he noticed was John’s chest and neck, now striped in thick white ropes of his semen. 

He collapsed forward, torso landing half on top of John’s, his head resting slightly above the shorter boy’s on the pillow. The two lay there panting, John absently caressing Sherlock’s flank in the humid air for several minutes. 

He gently pressed his lips into the soft blonde hair just above John’s ear. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John managed around sucking breaths. “Just, you know, trying to regain feeling in my limbs and all.”

“Right.” Sherlock said blandly. “I’m going to have a shower. Do you mind?”

“You can do whatever you damn well please—you just gave me wanking material for the rest of the year.”

Sherlock started at the phrase. “Wanking material?”

“In this room, yeah,” John panted. “I’d been lasting off of… well, our last time in here. But the memory was getting a little fuzzy.”

“From overuse, I’d assume.” He said with an arched eyebrow. 

“Yeah, pretty much.” They both huffed a laugh.

“I think I will shower, then.” Sherlock conceded, and as he rose from the bed he instantly regretted leaving the warmth of John’s body. Gathering up his clothes he made his way to the bedroom door. 

“Don’t be long,” John called from the bed as he rounded the corner to the bathroom, smile spread wide across his face. 

~*~

It wasn’t until he was half way through washing his hair in the shower that John remembered his plans with Mike. 

“Oh, hey,” he called through the curtain. “I’ve got a… a thing… later.” It sounded stupid and he instantly regretted the words. His brain was still a little hazy. It had been rather fantastic, and he decided then and there that seven months was an insane amount of time to go without being regularly shagged.

“A thing,” Sherlock all but spat from his spot in front of the sink mirror. John winced a little at the disdain in his voice. He would have been slightly pissed if he’d hauled his arse to Eton only to learn Sherlock had plans for the evening. “What sort of thing?”

“I promised a mate of mine from school I’d go to this Halloween party he’s having.” John rinsed the shampoo from his hair. “Well, he invited me and I said no… then kind of… said yes again. Sort of embarrassing really. I’m sorry, love, it was before I knew you were coming…” John sighed. He was happy to see Sherlock, and still a little blissed out, actually. But he wouldn’t be able to look Mike in the face if he bailed on him after nearly groveling for a re-invite. “I promised him I’d be there.” John could hear Sherlock thinking through the curtain. He was too rational to waste what time they had together being angry with John, but he might settle for making him uncomfortable. 

“What should I wear for a costume?” The answer caught him off guard and John choked on some water in surprise. Sherlock continued, un-phased. “I assume we’re supposed to be in fancy dress.”

John stuck his head out the curtain, still sputtering. “You actually want to go—“

“Obviously, John. You’ll be there, with all your co-ed classmates. And if this is a mate of yours, he’ll no doubt try and set you up with some unwitting female friend of his. I’ll need to be there to set the record straight, so to speak, as I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Oh.” Uncomfortable it is, then. 

~*~

Sherlock stood back as John rang the doorbell. He couldn’t shake the coil of nerves in his stomach. It was ridiculous—he’d be with John, protecting him from being suffocated by drunk, stupid schoolgirls. What did he have to be nervous about?

He didn’t like it, but whenever he knew alcohol would be involved he couldn’t help remembering their last fiasco when John had been drinking. And while Sherlock knew that he had shared blame in the events of their night out at the club last Christmas, he still felt the need to watch over John—which he knew John hated, but still felt guilty enough not to comment on. He wasn’t sure how much longer John would stand for this sort of arrangement though, possessive as they were of one another. The boy had lived too long under various thumbs, and Sherlock suspected that now he was free from one he wouldn’t tolerate another for long. 

But he didn’t want to keep John under thumb, didn’t want to be the paranoid boyfriend who contemplated murdering anyone who looked at his beau. The jealousy he sometimes felt just thinking about John enjoying anyone else’s company scared him. In theory, he could acclimatize himself to it, so if he simply continued placing himself in situations where other people were friendly to John and nothing disastrous happened, he would eventually get use to the idea and the raving jealousy would fade. 

In theory. 

Sherlock had performed enough experiments to know theories could prove to be wrong, sometimes having the disastrous outcome of producing the exact opposite effect of what was anticipated. The nervousness did not show any signs of dying down soon.

“John!” The door swung open to reveal a rather plump young many with a seven o’ clock shadow and costume that made him look only shorter and rounder. He was wearing prosthetic ears that Sherlock found unsettling for reasons he couldn’t explain, but his smile seemed open and genuine. He couldn’t be worse than John’s last batch of ‘friends’, Sherlock decided. 

The blonde stepped forward and said his hellos. “Hope you don’t mind if I brought a guest,” he offered sheepishly, gesturing to where Sherlock lurked behind him. Their bespeckled host squinted past John into the dark—Sherlock suspected he’d had two drinks so far, lagers, and they were effecting him already, but slowly. This boy was cautious and could hold his drink, assuming he drank slowly, which due to his cautious and generally calm nature he must do dutifully. Already he was stacking up as a much better replacement than another Mary Hester or Billy Pip. 

Mike stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you…”

“Sherlock,” he offered, shaking the host’s hand. Not a bad grip, either. 

“Sherlock,” Mike tried the name in his mouth. “Right then, what’s your drink? And what’re you dressed as anyway?”

Sherlock glanced down at his costume, which he had frankly forgotten he was wearing. Most of it was made from his regular clothes anyway—the converse, the tight jeans, the white T-shirt. The only real addition had been an old leather jacket of Harry’s, left behind. That and John had managed to slick back most of his curls. He felt surprisingly comfortable in the get up, and the hungry glint in John’s eyes as he’d given Sherlock one final look over before leaving the house hadn’t hurt either. It had been almost predatory, something that sent a shiver up his spine. “Greaser,” he offered sheepishly. “Like American films, in the fifties.”

Mike nodded. Sherlock assumed he was supposed to know what Mike was dressed as. He’d have to ask John to explain it later. Mike nodded at John. “And you just decided to come as yourself, then?”

John laughed. “Come off it.” He had donned his most misshapen jumper and a pair of old spectacles with the lenses popped out. The greaser and the square, the outlaw and the boy next door—it would have made Sherlock gag if it hadn’t been so oddly accurate. 

The three stepped fully into the house, Mike shutting the door behind them. Somewhere further back in the house music was playing, and the hallway already smelled faintly of beer and chips. So there would be food, good. Perhaps he could get John to eat something before he started in on a drink. 

“So, what’s your poison?” Mike asked, leading them to a galley kitchen. There was a smattering of bottles out on the counter, most of which looked like good liqueur—Sherlock recognized some as what his own parents kept. 

“Got any Scotch?” John asked, nodding towards a bottle of Gledlevitch. Mike poured him three fingers full in a glass. Sherlock sighed internally and decided that if John did have a hangover in the morning, at least it would be shorter than something off of cheap barrel whiskey. 

“And for James Dean?” Mike asked with a wink. “Oh, wait let me guess—“ he held up a hand and gave Sherlock a long, appraising look. “Not a whiskey man, for sure… not vodka, none of the hard stuff, really... Ah!” His eyes suddenly lit up as he climbed onto the already perilously crowded countertop and rummaged in a high cabinet. When he had both feet back on the kitchen floor he offered a bottle (a very nice bottle, Sherlock noted with some surprise) of red wine to his awaiting guest. “Favorite of mine too, if you want to know the truth. Care if we split it?” Mike was grinning from ear to ear. 

Sherlock could actually see himself liking this odd, round boy.

~*~

The scotch did its work quickly. In hindsight, John wished Mike hadn’t poured quite so much in his first glass. He couldn’t deny he had been nervous, not only to be at a party for the first time in god knew how long, but to have brought Sherlock with him. He’d swallowed down a finger full as soon as Mike had handed him the glass, then, catching a warning look from Sherlock, had gone off in search of the chips he’d smelled upon entering the house. 

It was in the next room, several boxes open on the dining room table. They’d been picked over already, and it was difficult to tell what most of the toppings were through a heavy layer of cheese. He was just picking out one from a relatively full carton when a voice came from behind him. “I wouldn’t take that one if I were you. Mike ordered it with jalapenos—but he’s the only one who can stomach them.”

John turned to find a simple and somewhat pretty girl with short blonde hair standing in the doorway to a dark room where he cold hear the music pulsing, twirling something that looked like hard plastic in her hand. Her feet were bare and she wore a simple light blue dress, and he couldn’t for the life of him tell what she was supposed to be dressed as. “Thanks,” he said, reaching for another box. He glanced back at the girl, for a sign of approval.

“Oh, that’s garlic cheese, I think. Well, it was the last time I grabbed some from it.” She shrugged, then offered her hand. “I’m Bethany Murray, by the way.”

John wiped the grease from his hand and shook hers. “John, Watson,” he offered. “You’re…”

“Not from around here, no,” she offered with a smile. “I’m stateside, originally. Mike’s a cousin, I’m just here for a year before I start college.” John quirked an eyebrow. She looked at least his age, if not older. “Sorry, university… uni, that’s what you guys call it here, right?”

“Right,” John conceded. An American. He’d picked the perfect night to try and introduce Sherlock to his friends—on a holiday, at a party, with booze, and now there was an American involved. He’d never live this down. 

“So what’re you dressed as?” She asked, reaching behind her into the other room, hand reappearing with a brown bottle in it.

“Ah, not sure how to describe it… like a nerd, from the fifties, a ‘square’ or something.” He shook his head, feeling foolish now. “My—uh, the bloke I came with thought of it.”

As if on cue Mike and Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, each with a stemmed glass of the wine in hand. Sherlock looked… not annoyed. That was new, for meeting someone new. But his easy expression faded the moment he saw the girl. Mike strode towards her with an affectionate “Beth! So you’ve met John, then.” He clapped his hand over her shoulder and looked between the two guests. Bethany was currently taking a long look between John and Sherlock.

“Yeah,” she said, eyes fixing on Sherlock. She nodded towards him before taking a drink from her beer. “Your boyfriend here was just telling me about his costume. Cute that you two match. Well, sorta’ match.”

John froze, feeling a flush and panic slowly work it’s way up his neck. No. No no no no no. This stranger had not just outed him in front of the one close friend he’d made here. He’d assumed Mike would know by the end of the night, by some fault of his own inhibitions or Sherlock doing something rash, or a combination of both (most likely), but not like this. 

Then, just as quickly as the panic had swept him, he was flooded with relief. He supposed he could always just turn mute for the rest of the school year, not talk to anyone, avoid people outside of school. It hadn’t been bad, having someone to talk to in the halls and eat lunch with, but he’d manage—

He was pulled from his frantic thoughts by arm looping around his waist, and looked up with no small measure of shock to see Sherlock smiling as he slid neatly to John’s side. Mike chuckled. “Didn’t want to say anything too soon,” his eyes flashed between the two boys, “but you’re as obvious as a pig in a henhouse, mate.” John gaped at him, stunned. “Oh come on,” Mike gawffed. “You mope all day, then show up on my doorstep with this bloke, all smiles and cartoon hearts in your eyes—it’s not too hard to put together, John.” 

Sherlock’s laughter rumbled at John’s side, and suddenly relief crashed over him. They were still standing. No one was bleeding or receiving death threats. He exhaled, loudly.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the taller boy said, shaking hands with Bethany. “And you’re Cinderella, I presume?”

Bethany held up the hunk of plastic in her hand, which John now saw was a shoe. “You can just call me Beth. Everyone here seems to.”

~*~

He made it an hour before he snuck out to the porch for a cigarette, only to find he wasn’t the only one to have the idea. 

“Wouldn’t have taken me for a smoker, hm?” Beth said it nicely enough, but Sherlock still heard the challenge. 

“Your skin and teeth are in too good condition.” He mused, knocking a cigarette from his pack. “So either you’re ridiculously healthy otherwise, and do this only on the rare occasion, or that’s a fake.” He knew it wasn’t fake, he could smell the thing from where he stood. 

“Good guess,” she nodded, offering her lighter. 

“It wasn’t a guess,” Sherlock drawled, taking a long drag.

“No?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“No.” He stated plainly. 

“Oh,” she said, in a tone that almost seemed to understand. “You’re one of those that just sees things, aren’t you?”

He stared at her dumbfounded. Beth merely shrugged. “We had an exchange student a few years ago like that—brilliant kid, but a little creepy, kinda crazy.” She shot him a look. “You’re not crazy, are you?”

He stared her down. “Depends on who you ask.” 

They were silent for a beat before she grinned and gave a laugh. A full-belly one that seemed to bubble up, not the sort he was used to hearing from girls, the fluttery, flirtatious nonsense. This laugh was infectious, and he found himself chocking slightly on his own smoke a moment later. 

Beth stubbed out her cigarette and came to sit on the low wall in front of him, ankles crossed and arms hugging her torso—her fault for wearing such a flimsy dress. “So,” she started cheerily. “You two. What’s the story?”

“Who said there was one?”

“Please,” she huffed. “He looked like he was ready to shit himself when I said ‘boyfriend’.”

“You’ll do well to remember that you’re talking to his boyfriend, who might be crazy.” It sounded like a kind threat.

She nodded, conceding the point. “Still,” she continued, swinging her legs. “If you two didn’t have some rain cloud about it hanging over you he probably wouldn’t have been so jumpy, right?”

Sherlock nodded, puffing thoughtfully. 

“So?” Damn it, the girl was relentless.

He breathed a heavy sigh, but she was still staring him down intently. “We met at school, a little over a year and a half ago.” He rolled the words around in his mouth, trying to think of simplest way to put things. “We kept it secret for a while—his friends weren’t… the sort to congratulate us about it. Well, congratulate him, I never—never got on with their lot.” He shrugged. “Things went bad once they found out.” Sherlock thought it perhaps too light to call broken ribs and several unconscious days spent in the school hospital something as simple as “bad”, but this girl didn’t need any extra details right now. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he was opening up to her at all. 

She stared at him for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed and one cheek sucked in between her molars. “And you two transferred out?”

He nodded. 

“So where do you go now?” She asked, absently rubbing her shoulders. Goose bumps were starting to rapidly appear on her skin.

“Eton,” he answered shortly. She gave a huff, making Sherlock’s eyebrow raise. “You know it?”

She smirked. “I know the stories.”

He shrugged. “Suppose that’s enough to be getting on with. What are you doing here, anyway? You’re from, what? The middle west of the states?”

Now it was her turn to blow her eyes wide with pleased surprise. “Very good. How’d you know that?”

“You drag out your ‘a’ to the point where it almost sounds like a ‘y’.” He sniffed. “Simple enough.” He happily left out that in a new level of boredom he’d begun watching some of the atrocious movies John had suggested. “So?” He mimicked. “What are you doing here?”

Beth pursed her lips. “I’m hoping to go to UCL next year,” she started slowly. “Took a gap year after high school ended, and now it looks like I’m spending it with family, here.”

He wanted to press her, certain there was more to the story, but as she had let his short summary suffice, he decided to do her the same kindness. “I hope it’s to your liking.” He nodded, stubbed out his cigarette, and headed inside.   
~*~

They weren’t the last to leave the house, but they did stay rather late. John’s skin still felt warm from the scotch he’d drank, and even in the dark he could make out a slight flush to Sherlock’s cheeks. His thin frame felt warm under the cool leather of his jacket as John remained close to him on their walk back to the Watson house. 

Their fingers were laced together, and as John pulled open the door to the yellow house and stepped inside he realize it was the first time he had done so without dread in many years. Smiling stupidly at the thought, he shucked his coat and hung it up before turning to take Sherlock’s jacket. The taller boy hesitated for a moment before shedding it and handing it over. John fiddled with the material in his hand for a moment, thinking. “You know,” he began, “Harry never wears this. I mean she left it here, for starters. And… y-you look good in it.” He felt himself blushing furiously. “You can keep it, if you like.”

Sherlock hesitated before giving a less than sure smile, hanging up next to his. “Tea?” Sherlock asked as he strode to the kitchen, shaking the last of the mist from his hair. The gel John had used to slick his hair had worn out in the light rain on their walk home, and the usual inky black curls had begun to spring free. Toeing off his shoes John followed him, the brightly lit room a welcome from the dark and oncoming winter chill outside. He slid into a chair at the table as Sherlock bussed about the kitchen, turning on the kettle and pulling down mugs. 

“So, not a bad night,” John offered. Sherlock made an assenting mumbled. “You and Mike seemed to get on rather well.” The two boys had made an odd pair, talking animatedly, even in Sherlock’s case. John had only caught snippets of their conversations, and most seemed focused on forensics and anatomy. He had known Mike had a penchant for science, considering his A levels, and they’d once had a brief discussion about the disciplines they planned to study at University, but he’d never had pegged Mike to know enough about grisly murders to entertain Sherlock for four hours. 

The taller boy nodded as he dropped bags into the mugs. “He is decidedly not an idiot.” John nodded, understanding this to be about as high a compliment as he could expect from his boyfriend. Sherlock took the seat next to him and slid his mug across the table. “Obviously I was concerned that your judgment hadn’t… improved as much, but it seems like you can make a sane decision these days.”

“Not quite good,” John warned, eyebrows furled. “You were concerned about my judgment?”

Sherlock huffed, back still turned. “It hasn’t exactly been stellar in the past, John.”

“Yes, because you would be the authority on making friends.” The blonde rumbled. 

Sherlock whirled around, sucking in his lips like he’d bit into a lemon, glowering at John. “You’re a creature of habit.” He bit out. “It would make sense for you to find the same sort of… friends here, where people knew you before you were out, where the little black rain cloud of you father is always hanging over you.”

John stared in silence, watching in horror as a sickly smile twisted itself across Sherlock’s face. “It would have been easy,” the tall boy continued in a low tone. “Harvey, Pip, Hester—they all kept the thing quiet. You could have gone on like it had never happened. Oh, come on John, you must have friends here from before that place. Friends of the Golden Boy. They’d have taken you back with open arms, their football star, their personal golden retriever.” John stared agape, unable to intervene now that Sherlock was clearly in the thick of whatever he wanted to say. “No one here would know, you know. Not about your posh boyfriend, or that you take it up the arse. Oh, and your father would love you again—”

The words died on his lips as John slammed a fist down on the table. He was breathing heavy, biting back a rage he knew didn’t belong there. When he spoke his words seemed caught between biting and choking. “After everything last year you still think—I wouldn’t go looking for—I hated those sods, especially towards the end—” He caught himself suddenly, letting the room come back into focus. Sherlock noticed everything—how had he missed this?

The tall boy stood with his back to the counter, hands gripping the edge. His lanky shoulders were near his ears, eyes trained on the floor. John couldn’t help but think of a dog waiting to be kicked. It was the way his body would bend when the other Redverse boys started in with their jeers and their taunts, the defensive posture he held whenever one of them raised a fist. All those times he’d had this look about him, with John standing near by, noticing the abuse but never intervening lest he become a target himself. 

And then he had revealed himself, finally, to the last person he could have imagined in what could have been the worst way possible, to the boy standing in front of him in his parents’ kitchen. Yet his secret had been kept safe, when Sherlock so easily could have used it against him, as bait or blackmail or revenge. Because, while John may never have joined in with the jeering or raised a fist of his own, he had stood idly by and watched it all happen. Sherlock would have had just as much cause to humiliate John as he had towards Marty Hester. And still he had stood by silently for so many months, Sherlock insisting it was to keep them both safe. But he hadn’t seemed safe—John may not be as observant as his boyfriend, but he had still noticed the cut lips, the sprinkle of bruises on his ribs. 

The kettle clicked off and Sherlock began busying himself with bags and boiling water. John stared down his back, lithe muscles moving swiftly under the soft white cotton. 

“Why are you doing this now?” He asked, voice sounding lost even in his own ears. This boy—how had he become so unsure of them? “Love—”

“Shut up John.” Sherlock slammed down the sugar bowl, the clink of ceramic on wood adding to the bite of his words. 

John shook his head and slowly rose from his seat. “No,” he said softly, advancing towards the turned back. “You’re still worried. That I’ll… that I’m like them. Or that I’ll… what? Turn on you? Loose interest? Forget about you? What is it, exactly?” He reached out a hand to place on a boney shoulder. 

“Stop it.” Sherlock shrugged him away, but there was too little bite behind his words.

“No.” John rested his chin on a slouched shoulder, grateful Sherlock didn’t try to shrug him off this time. “If you’d said those things a year ago I might have believed them.” The body under him remained stock-still. “After all this, everything that’s happened, you think I’ll suddenly turn on you?” He pressed his lips to the soft t-shirt. “You’re my best ally. I’ve had more opportunities and cause to leave you in the last year than I’d have thought possible, and I’m still here. I still want to be here, right here.” A huff and a gentle kiss landed on a sharp scapula. “And as for loosing interest, forget it. You’re such a bloody storm yourself that I’ll never have the luxury of being bored. Don’t think I’d last a day with anyone else, now—I’d die of boredom.” He felt a blooming rumble of laughter and John allowed himself to smile. “Face it, you’re stuck with me.”

“How unfortunate.” Sherlock turned in John’s arms, the mugs of tea held in his hands. “Do you mind moving? These are rather hot…”

“You’re rather hot.” John cracked, looping his arms tighter around the thin torso and pressing a kiss to the bony sternum.

“Really John?” His voice dripped with sarcasm but the smirk was still blatantly obvious on his face.

~*~

After the tea had been drunk and the things cleared away, the two boys headed upstairs. They traded off at the sink and changed in to pajamas (though John noticed Sherlock remained in the soft white cotton shirt he’d lent him, he said nothing). Sherlock fussed in the mirror for a bit longer than necessary, chunks of his hair still hardened by the gel. John left him to grumble in the bathroom and checked his phone, more out of habit of receiving goodnight texts, but instead found a new voice message from his mother’s number.

He dialed in, hoping he could hear the whole of it before Sherlock came back in the room. “Hi Johnny,” his mother’s recoding rasped into his ear. “Sorry to spring this on you so late at night—you’re probably in bed already—but your Auntie Lucy is having a bit of a rough time. It looks like we’ll be staying through Monday afternoon. Not to worry though—your father already called in at the office, and if you need anything from the shops just pop ‘round and we’ll pay you back when we’re home. Love you, son.” The message clicked off.

“Who was that?” Sherlock asked as he strode through the doorway.

“My mum,” John answered distantly, gesturing with the phone. As he absently watched Sherlock flop down on the bed he couldn’t help the idea growing in his head. “They said they wouldn’t be back until Monday evening, something about my aunt.” He licked his lips, weighing his next words. “I don’t want to keep you from classes but could you…”

“Obviously I’ll stay John.” It came out quickly, as if he’d been waiting for this turn of events. “My classes on Mondays are dull, anyway.”

John huffed out a laugh. “You think all your classes are dull.” 

“And so they are. Now, are you coming to bed or not?” Meanwhile Sherlock was already clamoring awkwardly under the covers.

John rolled his eyes. “Well when you make it sound like so much bloody fun…”

Sherlock momentarily relented in his battle with the hospital-corner sheets, heaving an exasperated sigh. “You’re tired, and I’m still sore from earlier. Oh don’t look at me like that, it’s been ages, it was bound to hurt. Anyway, you can just… hold me, or… something, until you fall asleep.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” John said quietly. 

“What?” Sherlock looked up from his hard-won spot under the blankets.

John spoke louder. “About it hurting.”

The small shrug barely registered above the layers on the bed. “It wasn’t unbearable, and I knew the pleasure would outweigh the pain soon enough.”

“Still, Sherlock…”

“You’ve never complained.”

John bit his lip, finally deciding that it wasn’t worth the effort to argue now. “Alright.”

“Good. Now shut up and get in.” He glanced at John’s face and added, “Please.”

John managed to worm his way under the tightly made sheets, getting a bony knee to his kidney and a pointed elbow in his ribs in the process. “You’re all bloody angles and pin points, you know that?” He grumbled as his head finally came to rest on the pillow. “It’s like getting into bed with a bunch of loose LEGOS.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Loose what?”

“Never mind,” John said, eyes rolling. “Now, you said something about cuddling?”

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I did not say cuddling,” he amended. “I said you could hold me—” The words died on his lips as John looped two strong arms around his torso and nuzzled his head into a prominent sternum. He was asleep within minutes, and it was only then that Sherlock allowed himself to throw an arm protectively over John’s waist and drift off to the sound of gentle breathing. 

~*~

It had been years since John had had a proper nightmare. Not the kind that simply woke him with a start and kept him blinking blearily in the dark for a moment before drifting back off to sleep, but the kind that woke him shaking, unsure for hours if it was really just his imagination, that kept him up until the sun was fully in the sky, for fear that some remnants of the dream were still lurking on the edge of consciousness. 

That night he was banging on the door to his old dormitory bathroom, furiously shouting for Marty Hester to let him in. He knew he had to get in—he couldn’t quite remember why—there was something important in there, something valuable, something he needed to live, and Marty and his friends were trying to destroy it, to keep it from him, to kill it, and in turn, kill John as well. 

Suddenly the door gave way, the howling he’d heard behind it moments before suddenly silent. The snap of his school shoes echoed off of the mint tile floors. When he turned the corner he saw a rapidly growing pool of blood, and the mangled body it was flowing from. 

“Sherl—” he murmured, crouching down by the splayed limbs and ripped clothes. Small rivers of crimson flowed from black curls, plastered to the side of the pale face, making the ice green-blue-gray eyes stand in sharp relief more than ever. “No, no,” he babbled, reaching a hand to cover a sharp cheekbone, the skin broken over it as if it had been a razorblade. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t…” he stammered as he lifted the head. 

The teeth fell out of the reddened mouth like coins falling from a jar, sliding and clattering to the tile floor. 

Then someone started screaming. 

~*~

Sherlock woke with a start to something jabbing him in the stomach. It took half a second for him to focus and remember where he was, and another full one to recognize that John was still asleep.

If it could be called sleep. He was twitching like mad and murmuring, practically pleading with someone not to be dead. 

“John,” he said, voice heavy with sleep. The shorter boy continued to squirm, and when Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder he began to lash out in every direction and scream. 

Sherlock fell from the bed in shock, which quickly shifted to panic, completely at a loss of how to help John. He’d read about night terrors, but in the frantic buzz of the moment and still slightly disorienting state of waking up, couldn’t recall a word that could be helpful. 

Unsure what to do, he stood and began calling John’s name at his regular volume level. He kept repeating it, nearly turning into a plea before the boy suddenly snapped awake, gasping for air, and twisting in his bed until he found the source of the voice.

Sherlock felt for his phone, dropped somewhere on the floor with the rest of his clothes, and shone the light on his own face. “John,” he started cautiously. “Breathe deeply,” he said, some of the more useful information coming back to him. He kneeled closer to the bed, phone still illuminating his face yet able to make out John’s in the dim room. “Come on John, in through your nose,” John followed his instructions with shuddery breaths, holding Sherlock in a vice-like gaze. Once he was breathing normally again, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. John inched up until he was sitting, sheets still tangled around his legs, then lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock around the middle. Sherlock momentarily stiffened at the suddenness and intensity of the hug, and then gently wrapped his arms around John’s torso, softly petting his back, softly cooing nonsense. And politely pretending he didn’t hear the soft sobs.

“It’s fine, it’s alright,” he mumbled deftly. “I’m right here, you’re fine.”

After a few moments John sniffled and drew back. He was still shaking slightly, but rested his elbows on his knees, face cradled in his palms. 

“Would you like to go back to sleep?” Sherlock tried cautiously. John shook his head. “Do you need anything?” John shrugged helplessly. An idea suddenly struck. “Wait here,” he said lamely, resting a hand momentarily on John’s shoulder before walking briskly to the bathroom and coming back with a glass of cool water. He held it to John and pet his back some more as he drank it, gulping it down and setting the empty glass on the bedside table once he was done. 

Body slack from sudden exhaustion, John lay back on the pillow, kicking the sheets off and away from his legs. After a moment Sherlock stretched out next to him. Their eyes aligned, Sherlock couldn’t help seeing the trouble lurking in John’s deep blue irises. He wanted desperately to ask, but thought it would keep until morning. He was just beginning to drift off when John murmured, “Smile for me.”

Sherlock cracked open and eye, small smile slowly spreading across his face. John simply stared, brow slightly furrowed, his warm palm gently cupping a sharp cheekbone. Sherlock drifted off soon afterwards, but knew without a doubt John lay awake the rest of the night. 

~*~*~*~

The morning was gray and cloudy, the threat of rain heavy in the air. The two were relatively quiet during breakfast, passing off jam and milk over the table. John almost felt domestic. Was this what it would be like once they were living together? The thought made his stomach do strange flips, then it sunk.

What if Sherlock was rethinking all of that after… after the night before? He hadn’t yet worked up the guts to ask what exactly he had been doing in his sleep, but he assumed it had been more than the screaming. 

“Stop it.” Sherlock’s bored tone jolted John out of his thoughts.

“W-what?” He bit his tongue, realizing his voice came out shaky.

“Stop thinking about it, it’s annoying.” Sherlock mumbled around a mouthful of toast. 

John instantly went on the defensive. “You’ve no idea what I’m thinking.”

“You’re fretting about last night, trying to figure out what happened while you were still out, wondering if you hurt me more than I’m letting on, and, predictably enough, thinking I’ll leave you for it.” He drained his tea and gathered up his mug and plate to take to the sink. “All predictable, all boring, all completely untrue. Enough?”

“No.” John turned in his chair, staring with a mix of confusion and budding anger at Sherlock’s back. The boy stood there so calmly, washing dishes as if something odd had never happened. “Are you just going to pretend we slept like babies last night?”

Sherlock suddenly turned. “No, but I am going to carry on like nothing is the matter. Because nothing is the matter. You had a nightmare, and you’ve been through a rather traumatic year. It’s normal.”

John swore shortly under his breath. “Normal. It’s not normal to wake up screaming and ready to punch your boyfriend in the middle of the night!” Sherlock looked taken aback by the sudden outburst. “I could have hurt you, Sherlock.”

“But you didn’t,” the tall boy offered coolly. 

John still felt like shouting. “That’s not the bloody point!”

Sherlock left his dishes in the sink and dragged a chair closer to John, sitting in it backwards with his forearms resting on the back. “Have you had any nightmares like that before?”

“How the hell should I know?” John bit back.

“Your parents would have heard the screaming.” He continued calmly. “That’s not something they would have shrugged off.”

“I don’t remember,” John offered weakly. “I don’t remember anything like that before.” Hearing the weak crack in his voice he realized that he was, in fact, afraid. If this happened again—if Sherlock somehow got trapped and caught the worst end of his blind terror—he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair to press a soft kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. It nearly made him smile. “Finish your tea and we can find some crap telly to watch. There’s no way I’m going out in that rot.”

John cast a look at the window—it had started to pour. 

~*~

They did manage to find some god-awful makeover show to watch. The rain pattered down, and under the pretense of being cold Sherlock curled around John on the couch, throwing a blanked over the two of them. It was nearly noon before either of them said anything beyond the inane comment about the rubbish they were watching. 

“What was it about?” Sherlock asked softly, head pillowed on John’s chest. He strongly suspected the dream had something to do with him. It would make it easier if John didn’t have to look at him while he told the story of it, and this way Sherlock could listen to his heart beat, be able to tell when he was lying or on edge. 

Sure enough, John took a deep breath, making Sherlock’s head rise briefly before he exhaled his words in a rush. “It was you—you were on the bathroom floor, where Mycroft and I found you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Has that bothered you before?”

“Of course it’s bothered me,” John heaved a sigh. “But… it wasn’t like it was.”

Sherlock remained silent. He watched as a round, middle-aged mother of four emerged with a new haircut and perilously high heels, making her fleshy legs wobble. By the time the credits were rolling and the woman’s family were congratulating her on her heavy make up and too-tight clothing, John was absently stroking Sherlock’s hair, nearly sending him off to sleep. 

“You were bleeding everywhere, and your… your legs looked all wrong.” The hand in his hair continued, tightening slightly, but John’s voice came quiet. Sherlock turned until he was looking up into an open, vulnerable, half-terrified face. John looked straight back. “I went to lift your head and your teeth fell out.” Sherlock held his gaze calmly. John squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could will the memory away. “It sounds stupid now, just forget—”

“It was a nightmare, John,” he said quietly. “They’re not supposed to make sense.” He pressed a languid kiss to the soft cotton covering his abdomen, breathing in the scent of laundry and skin, enjoying the warmth there. “You were probably just overheated—you’re not used to having anyone else in bed with you.” John nodded absently. “We’ll have to get a double, maybe larger for the flat.”

~*~

Their day passed quietly, the rain providing constant white noise to fill in the long silences. It was a day for mocking crap telly and eating most of the crisps in the house. Sherlock got up to make tea just after four, but other than that they hardly moved from the sofa. John dozed for a couple hours, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. The taller boy felt his arm begin to cramp only a few minutes after John began to breathe slowly, but held himself still for the next two hours so the blonde could sleep. 

Around seven they finally trotted upstairs, John insisting on a shower. “Are you still cold?” he asked, lips fitting into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. “You could join me.”

Sherlock scowled. Shower sex seemed like one of the least practical ideas mankind had ever come up with. There was no room for two people under the water, so someone was always cold, and the chances of one member slipping and injuring themselves and their partner were too high for his liking. And everything would taste like soap. “Really, John?”

“We could run a bath.” John suggested, undeterred, lips slowly making their way under the v of Sherlock’s jumper. 

Sherlock hesitated. “The water has to be really hot, or it’ll cool off before we can even wash.”

~*~

“Do you ever have nightmares?” John asked, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls along with the steady drip of the tap into the full bath. 

Sherlock continued absentmindedly dragging his lips over the damp, flushed shoulder nestled into his chest, debating how much of the truth he could get away with. “Not like you had, no.” He felt something begin to tense and coil in John, and pulled the boy further back towards him. “Stop,” he murmured into the base of his neck, lips catching on damp hair. 

“Then what are yours like?” John pressed. 

“Usually something about you leaving.” He answered finally. “Something I did, something I said, finally sets you over the edge and you leave. Simple as that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” John stated with a shake of his head.

Sherlock mouthed at the warm skin of John’s neck. “If you say so.”

~*~

After two hours of lying in bed, pretending the other was asleep, John finally rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. “Go to sleep already.” He grumbled at the mass of dark curls on the pillow.

“No,” Sherlock answered without opening his eyes.

“You don’t have to… keep watch, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“I’m not keeping watch.” An eye cracked open. “I slept more than enough last night, you’re the one who needs rest.”

“I napped.” John added defensively. 

Sherlock growled. “Two hours on a couch isn’t enough for a decent REM cycle, John.”

The boy let out a bitter laugh. “You should talk.”

Finally Sherlock gave up the pretense of sleep, sitting up in the narrow bed and facing John. “You’re more relaxed tonight than last, and you’re not going to be as hot, you’re wearing fewer layers.”

John rolled his eyes and flopped back onto his side, facing away from Sherlock. The boy remained in his spot, looming over John’s curled form. 

“Anxiety over sleep is only going to make matters worse.” Sherlock said hotly.

“Then what do you bloody well suggest I do?” John grumbled.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock flippantly offered, “I could suck you off really quick.”

“Ha.” John said drily. “Very charming.”

“Well what do you want then?” He asked, exasperatedly pulling on John’s shoulder. “Want me to sing you a lullaby? Hm?”

John yanked himself out of the way, and Sherlock replayed the comment in his head. Not good. He lowered himself until his front was carefully cradling John’s back again, one arm looping around to hold him close, the other brushing fingers through the soft blonde hair. “Did you know there’s an oratory in Ireland that’s older than the pyramids?” He rumbled into soft hair. John remained silent and unmoving but Sherlock clearly had his attention. 

He continued mumbling every simple fact and tidbit he could recall until John finally drifted off into a heavy sleep.

~*~

John hunched his back against the cold wind at the bus station in front of the Costa, Sherlock standing next to him far more appropriately bundled up. Monday morning had arrived far too quickly, and as he stood next to his boyfriend, preparing to send him back to school—away from him, again—his thoughts wandered to their last goodbye. Then everything had been rushed, and painful in so many ways. It had been a quick fuck with his parents still in the house, a last-minute kiss on the street by an idling town car. 

But this time. This time they had spent the previous night and an hour that morning making love slowly, savoring every noise and spark of pleasure. Last night, when John was nestled deep in Sherlock’s lap, long limbs secured around him, hips rocking a steady rhythm into him, their pace so slow John knew his thighs would burn for days—it was then that Sherlock’s hot breath in his ear had morphed into a choked-off cry of what they said far too little. There were times he was tempted to label their attachment to each other with something less romantic—“codependency” seemed fitting. That overused four-letter-word seemed too small, too simple for what he felt. But that didn’t make hearing any less powerful. His gut had twisted and jolted, wanted more than anything to be able to drift in that moment for the rest of time. 

And now here they were, half freezing at a bus stop and standing too far apart. John glanced around—there was an elderly couple tottering around up the road, a few stragglers at the café window, and a man in an expensive looking suit reading a newspaper was sitting on the bench behind them. Fuck it, he thought, sliding to Sherlock’s side and taking the bony fingers in his own. 

The man behind them grunted. 

He flashed a mischievous grin at his boyfriend. He stood on his toes, waiting until the last possible second to close his eyes all the way. Cool lips mixing with hot tongues. He distantly registered the man behind them making a great fuss of stuffing his newspaper into his briefcase, and then of the bus nearing, but he just griped tighter to Sherlock’s coat collar, not wanting to feel the absence of the navy tweed in his fist, knowing it was the first sign that the boy was actually leaving. He suddenly felt the need to breath him in, to carry his scent around inside his lungs—cigarette smoke and honey, vanilla and tobacco ash.

Too soon Sherlock was pulling away. His hands were firm on the sides of John’s face. “You’ll make me late,” he purred, leaving one final heated kiss on John’s lips before he boarded the bus, and was carried away.


End file.
